Twenty Somethings

Dance Like Everybody is Watching. With Mirrors On All Sides

2012-01-31T09:30:00.001-07:00

“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore”
~ Andre Gide

I think it's fair to say that I cannot, cannot, dance. I can do this thing where I drink three shots of tequila and then sort of hallucinate I'm on So You Think You Can Dance, but once the liquor wears off it becomes apparent that I have just run drunken laps around the bar with my hands in the air like a maniac. I love the idea of dancing - I watch all the shows, entertain fantasies about quitting life and spending 8 hours a day learning how to crump - but at 28 years old, I realize I'll probably always be relegated to the tequila squat and thrust.

This doesn't mean, however, I won't spend 2 hours a week attempting to reverse fate.

Because recently? I've started taking a dance class. A friend teaches this class - otherwise I would have never, in a trillion years, set foot into a room surrounded by mirrors - and what started as a one time experience has turned into a weekly lesson in embarrassment management.

Not only are there mirrors on every single wall, there are actual dancers in this class. Like, people who shake their ass in their sleep and do ball-changes in the shower. They wear Flashdance-esque shirts and are always turning left when I'm going right. They see something once and repeat it like they choreographed it themselves. They add flair.

And me? I'm in the back. In the corner. Staring at the person in front of me and desperately trying to figure out how to fucking pivot in the right direction. I'm stepping on my own feet. Blowing my hair out of my eyes and trying to sexily walk toward the front mirror without bursting into howls of laughter. I mean, I can be sexy, but when you add specific steps to specific hip-shakes, I think, for the most part, I am the opposite of that.

So most of the time I'm messing up my right and my left and avoiding crushing someone else's toes, but every once in a while, once every blue moon over Buffalo, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and am surprised: I am actually not sucking.

As soon as this information reaches my brain I start sucking again, but that glimmer, that millisecond of understanding that I actually could learn how to do this, changes the way my cells and blood and even spirit cycle around in my body.

Just a moment of realizing you could possibly do this one thing that seems so out of your reach unlocks the possibility that all other things that seemed out of reach might also be possible.

It's a fleeting moment, a moment that usually disappears the minute I fuck up again, but its echo is powerful enough to stay with me for the rest of the night - and bring my back to the class, week after uncoordinated week.

What I Am - And Successfully Mastering The Fine Art of Staying The Eff Away From Pie

2012-01-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught

~ Winston Churchill

When I'm feeling less than spectacular, I tend to engage in an activity where I tell myself all the things I'm not. Not successful. Not a super athlete. Not rich. Not in a relationship...I'm good at it. Someone should give me a medal. Or at least one of those vague Dollar Store trophies where the gold guy is just sort of standing around and which can be used for anything from being awesome at bowling to having the most team spirit.

This activity serves a purpose: to make me feel even worse about myself and keep me from changing anything about my life that would make it better.

I've been here before. It happens a lot in the winter - I came out of the womb wanting sunshine and warmth and hot guys without shirts (I was a special baby, obviously), and I can always count on a double dose of it during quiet career spells - when my hopes and dreams seem to bounce off empty white walls.

Because I've already lived through this bullshit, multiple times, I've decided to stop bitching and take a step froward. I'm tired of feeling like my life is a victim of my current state of mind, or my current city, or my current bank account. Instead of all these I'm Nots, there are I Ams:

I Am a screenwriter. No, Michael Bay has not produced anything of mine and I don't routinely polish my oscar with tender rag strokes, but those things simply don't have any barrings on the truth. At 28, with minimal health care, a small amount of savings and two degrees that are now literally collecting dust, if I could have chosen another passion, I would have. I tried to force myself to love math, psychology, politics...anything that would save me from the life I seemed destined for - but nothing took. Especially not math. Sadly.

I Am athletic. As a chubby, bashful kid constantly attached to a pair of bifocal glasses, I don't think I ever imagined classifying myself this way. But people grow up, buy a pair of glasses that fit their damn face and learn to push themselves. My biggest fear has always been doing agility drills in front of other people because don't we all remember the hell that was high school gym class? Jesus. But in the past year I've muscled up, learned how to do push-ups, and even started taking classes at the gym that are pure agility drills. I still wouldn't classify myself as an athlete (don't you have to have branded spandex for that?), and there are times when trying to keep up with the true marathon women amp up the possibility of barfing to an exceptionally high level, but slowly watching my body transform has been one of the proudest achievements of my 20's.

I Am sensitive. I think I've been running from this one for years, but it's easier just to admit it. If you're in a bad mood, unsettled, stressed, hiding something - I know. If you think you're fooling me, you're not. If you get angry in my general direction, I hate it, and think about it for days afterward. If you break my heart, I'll never forget, no matter how much I try. I feel pain at a weirdly intense level and am easily exhausted by crowds. The mistreatment of kids or animals sends me into a Hulk-like rage. I like solitude, and my skin really isn't that thick. I've tried to hide all these things at one point or another with some lame act that includes running and slamming doors when I might cry in front of other people, but enough is enough. It's not like I'm growing out of it any time soon. Might as well make a shirt and wear it.

When I start living in a world where I Am and stop idling in I'm Not, I take more chances, get up and do more things, talk myself out of pie binges and Snapped (a show about women freaking out and killing people) marathons. External situations don't always change, but my determination quotient goes up -- and determination can be a powerful thing.

I may wake up with a familiar boredom and still feel slightly unfulfilled tomorrow, but at least I'm fighting it.

And staying the fuck away from pie.

She Wanted to Run to Bali, But Instead, She Set Her Jaw and Stayed

2012-01-05T13:48:00.001-07:00

“Supposing you have tried and failed again and again. You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing that we call "Failure" is not the falling down, but the staying down”
~ Mary Pickford

I'm currently seeing the world in a bright shade of dull.

As much as I believe we make our own mood, our own happiness, I'm fully aware that sometimes life just...goes. There doesn't seem to be anything to really look forward to. Waking up every morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering what would happen if you just quit your job and took off to Bali or Barbados or, at the very least, the Bahamas.

While plans for the future remain bubbly, the Here and Now is kind of suffocating. And when this happens, every single time this happens, I get sensitive. I daydream, I meditate for more than 45 minutes at a time, I look over my shoulder and I most certainly listen.

I tune in to other people, hoping to glean something from our interaction that will point me in the right direction, or at least point to what I'm doing wrong. It's like my cells get bigger, my already sensitive sensitivity increases and every little word, every breeze, every sad dog commercial (why are those things so long?!) hit me at my core, forcing me to feel, pause, ask: what's going on here? Is this where I'm supposed to be? What is this all about, anyway?

Conflict - if and when it arises, sits on my chest even harder during these uninspired days. It sinks a little farther under my skin because there's no But-It'll-All-Get-Better-Soon! protective covering. In other words, I ruminate like a champ.

The other day at work I did a slightly stupid thing. One of those underpaid and overworked decisions that isn't a super big deal in the real world, but when you're dealing with people who make millions of dollars a year, suddenly it's kind of like you firebombed the building. So I made one of those and got a lashing from someone I had considered a friend. I hate being yelled at, castrated in front of other people (my pride is the biggest part of my body), and when you add in the element of someone you like kicking your ass, it just sucks. It sucked all day, in fact. Into the evening.

At a certain point my rational mind had had enough, so I sat down with my shivering, sensitive self and worked shit out. What I realized, huddled in a sweatshirt pulled down over my feet, was that I actually didn't care as much as I thought I did. I was feeling the memory, not the real sensation, of caring about this person's random freak-out. Holy hell, I thought. Has the day really come when other people's shit isn't absorbed straight through my pores and into my heart?

It had.

Even in my ultra-delicate state, the fact glowed a neon red: I was over it.

Because I had never expected to not feel such a thing in my lifetime, the realization took a little time to settle, but once it did, I was more relieved than when I realized my parents had given up their quest to scan all the "chubby stage" pictures from my childhood and post them on Facebook.

I don't know when the inspiration will come back, when I'll figure out how to release the pause button on my life, but at least I know that even during these dim moments, these weeks that feel so automatic pilot and repetitive, progress can be made. Progress can always be made, I think. Even when life doesn't seem to be going anywhere, our minds soak up and our bodies process and our subconscious learns. We can ignore it, of course. But what's the point in that?

...And, wouldn't you know, a day after this particular person who freaked their shit, they sent me an email of Michelle Bachman going after a corn dog like she was about to give the best blow job she had ever given. Enemies don't send each other photos of crazy politicians about to perform oral sex on a slab of meat - that's a friend's job.

"I'm going to have nightmares," I typed. "You asked for it," they typed back.

And I guess I did.

2011 Wasn't So Bad, Kind Of Like Under-Cooked Broccoli, Which is Good For You, If Not A Little Difficult To Actually Swallow

2011-12-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

“Courage allows the successful woman to fail

and learn powerful lessons

from the failure

so that in the end

she didn't fail at all”
~ Maya Angelou

As I was cleaning my room this morning (dusting my countless shelves and getting severely freaked out at the amount of dirt I live with on a daily basis) I came across a list of things I wanted 2011 to bring. Ha ha ha.

The end of 2010 had me making big wishes. I wanted some payback from the shitty 365 days I felt I had just experienced. I deserved this and that, and certainly wasn't about to spend the entirety of 2011 alone. So I made this list of desires, rolled it up into a little scroll, tied it with string, and set it in a box with incense and "magic" stones and a bunch of other shit I had been convinced to buy at some point in order to change my life. When I unrolled it this morning, the childishness of some of those wishes struck me.

If life is a progression toward knowledge, than a true sign you're doing it right is to cringe at certain things you were sure of in the past. I cringe a lot at my past incarnations - probably more than I should (every other month I desperately want to erase 75% of this blog), but it was strange to be holding a piece of green paper that was only a year old and already feeling like it was an ancient relic.

A lot changed this year, but most of it was inaudible. Like a silent tsunami, it quietly but forcefully cleared away stuff I thought I needed, thought I wanted, and clung to just for the hell of it. It wasn't exactly fun at all times -- picking yourself apart and then putting yourself together, if only for a brief moment in your current timeline - is painful shit. It's lonely. It's exhausting. And the examination process can be relentless.

There were no men to distract me. Literally. Never have I had a year so bereft of the hot, male species. If you would have told my 25-year-old self I would soon experience a year where men ceased to take up large portions of my brain, I would have probably melted into a pile of disbelieving tears. But it was actually fine. Especially because what I had been yearning for for years can't truly come from another person anyway. I have no idea how long this aloneness will continue, but I can't say I'm scared. Loneliness doesn't last.

There were no giant career success to distract me either. I got farther than ever before in some ways, but alas, the major wins and signed contracts were not handed to me. Instead, I watched them slip between my fingers, shook off what simply couldn't be changed and only stress-ate half a box of chocolate fudge cookies. I wanted to quit writing just once or twice. A lack of sore losing sobs and chocolate overdoses is a marked improvement for someone who used to take every "no" like a personal punch in the face.

It sounds boring, 2011. Quiet and plodding a little bit repetitive. It was, in certain ways, but 2011 was also a game changer. I'll never be the same, my thinking will be forever altered, and I've found a way to love a body and a mind that have plagued me since I was old enough to know I was born imperfect.

I don't think I'll be making any wishes for 2012 (except for the one I make every night involving Ryan Gosling and a hot tub), because most wishes are wastes of time. They're unfilled desires, paper-thin and pointless. What I will do, however, is live as fully and as capably and as gratefully as I can - without gripping the outcome in a chokehold.

I will be deliberate in the new year.

Loving, open, determined, spirited and ready.

I will not hope for a good 2012 -- I will be part of the process of creating it.

How about you?

Happy Holidays From 1997! A Seasonal Video Blog Including Josh Groban + Male Strippers

2011-12-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

"Well, there are lots of great treats this time of year - Zucchini Bread, Fruitcake.. but the thing that I most like to bring out this time of year are my Balls"
~ Pete Schweddy

The holidays have been written about, and written about, and written about.

So my bosom buddy Maria and I decided we would discuss -- as in, jump on iChat one Friday night when the rest of the world was fist pumping and doing shots of marshmallow-flavored Vodka (because it unfortunately exists) -- the holidays; perhaps chatting about our favorite Christmas carols or our favorite holiday films or maybe even a show and tell of some of the best gifts we've ever received.

And then I drank one (one!) beer and Maria got drunk through osmosis.
And we ended up with what you're about to watch.

{Note: something is definitely wrong with my Internet connection. So wrong that my screen frequently makes it look as though I'm wearing wax make-up that is slowly melting all over my face. We debated about putting this video up for mass consumption, because of how shitty the quality was, and I guess we drank another beer and decided the sheen of 1997 dial-up made it even...funnier? Weirder? Sadder?)

Someday we'll fix the quality

and / or get our own VH1 show.

(ps: our lip syncing was so much better in real time than it looks here.
We can lip sync like Milli Vanlli: so good you'll give us a recording contract)

All I Want For Christmas Is A Successful Career, A Hot Husband & Doughnuts That Won't Make Me Fat

2011-12-09T07:00:00.000-07:00

“That's the thing with magic. You've got to know it's still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you”
~ Charles de Lint

The best thing about being a kid at Christmas (besides the obvious gift gluttony), was sitting next to our nonsensically decorated tree, listening to my mom's Christmas records -- I swear to you we had a record player in the late 80s -- and building lincoln log houses underneath the twinkling lights and amid the fresh scent of pine needles. It was like being in another universe - one where only good things and good smells and good cheer existed.

(This is before we transitioned to a fake tree because my Dad was so goddamned sick! of the real thing falling over and almost crushing our cat and shattering tiny ornaments into so many pieces that dangerously small shards of glass speckled our living room for days.)

As a big believer in magic, Christmas seemed like the absolute best time for wishes to come true - espescially for 8-year-old girls who were already so full of Catholic guilt that the worst thing they had done in recent memory was sneak a gingerbread cookie before dinner. I mean, Santa came out at Christmas. A huge old man who delivered presents all over the world in one single night. If that wasn't fucking magic, nothing was.

December still has its magic moments, but obviously, 20 years later, some of the sparkle has leaked out. It's just how life goes; you grow up, realize Santa's handwriting is an exact replica of your mom's, panic because you hardly have enough money to buy gifts, and ready yourself for the bombardment of questions regarding your dating / baby status for five consecutive days. Even with the added benefit of spiking your eggnog with as much rum as you want, there's nothing joyous about realizing how much shit you're being served by Big Businesses who just want you to BUY giant TVs and giant diamonds while millions of people all over the earth can hardly afford 2 meals a day.

Despite the stressful, sugary consumer coating, I still enjoy the spirit of Christmas. It's just...sometimes I wonder how many more single, not-quite-doing-the-job-I-want holidays are going to go by. Obviously I'd like this to be the last one, but there's only so much control a girl's got - sometimes she just has to defer to Santa. Or little baby Jesus. Or Hallmark. Or Halliburton. ...Or whoever really controls this holiday.

Sometimes she just has to make a wish on magic that may or may not still exist.

For now, I guess I'll just be grateful for other joys: like parents who still secretly put presents out on Christmas morning, five dollar buckets of 100 tiny candy canes, and an excuse to wear an exorbitant amount of sequins for a month.

What do you want this year?

And what do you already have?

Just Another Chance For My Life To Completely Change - Or Not

2011-12-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

“Do not lose hold of your dreams or aspirations. For if you do, you may still exist but you have ceased to live”
~ Henry David Thoreau

When you've still yet to have your break

- the moment Hollywood realizes you've been knocking at their door for like 5 years, in the rain, without an umbrella, and finally lets you in -

You learn that concentrating too hard on contests, or a producer getting back to you, or an agent deciding they like your work enough to not use it as a napkin during taco Wednesday, will make you insane. If you focus on these things, your brain will begin to melt through your nose, and when bad news comes, you will have to be forcibly removed from the wine bottle and an incoherent weekend marathon of Law and Order: SVU.

Of course, waiting and hoping is all part of the game, just like rewriting and (ugh disgusting) shmoozing, but if you make the subjective decision part of this art too big of a focus, you will yank your hair out trying to write what you think other people want. And we all know how that turns out: fucking awful.

But. Okay. But - every once in a while? I pay attention. Maybe I count down the days until a specific production company emails me back, or cross out the months until a big contest announces its finalists, because these situations are different than the rest. These situations? Could literally turn my life around and my dreams into a tangible job.

In a few weeks, I'll find out if I'm part of the 2012 Screenwriting Lab at Sundance, a week-long summit in January where writers and directors and other important people actually look you in the face and say, "hey, let me help you turn this script of yours into actually something."

There are only two rounds of decisions. I made it past the first round. I got the email and flipped my shit and screamed into the phone at my Dad and poured myself a victory whiskey sour and maybe (but I can't verify) listened to a Britney Spears song 15 times in a row. And then I tried to forget about it. But of course you don't forget about something with the word Sundance in it. And so now I know that I have about 15 days before my life changes - or it doesn't.

I don't need to write about what would happen to my voice and my blood pressure and my world if I actually won. Whatever. We all know the answers to that. But if I don't win? I mean, life will go on. I'll probably be sad for a little while, only because I've been a bridesmaid so many times I could literally string my Almosts and Maybes across the state of Colorado, but then I'll get over it. I have to. Even if I want to quit writing for a day, or a week, after the announcement, I can't actually quit. Twelve years of hard work would gurgle down the drain. And my identity would be much vaguer, and my life would be emptier.

I'm good at preparing for What Will Probably Happen (as opposed to What I Want To Happen), and so I've already got a plan of how I'll pick myself after I have a heart-stopping moment of complete and utter life despair. These moments are familiar. They pass. Because they have to. Or else I buy a one-way ticket to Barbados and no one ever hears from me again.

But, god, what if by some magical, Ryan Gosling moment of beauty, I can finally realize what it feels like to not need the Emergency Despair Repair kit?

I'd probably just throw up.

Right then and there. Immediately.

Just open my mouth up and barf, all saucer-eyed and confused, like a baby.

And it will be awesome.

Thanksgiving + Hot Dudes = Naked Thanksgiving 2011 (a Video Blog)

2011-11-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

I don't always like to do what other people are doing.

Which is why this Thanksgiving, I'm not talking about turkey or being bloated.

Instead, we'll be discussing hot men.

"Is there anything that could improve a holiday dedicated to food?" I asked my good friend Maria a few nights back while we were both Facebook chatting and drinking wine. "There is one thing," she typed. "WHAT?!" I couldn't imagine. "Hot Dudes. Naked. Eating Thanksgiving dinner with you."

The image stunned me. She was right.

When I told her that we would be dedicating my second video blog to this very thing, she suggested that we drink wine first, because wine always makes one feel funnier. Does it actually make one funnier? I guess you'll be the judge of that.

One word of caution: apparently, Maria and I tolerate our alcohol very differently. She gets quiet, and her voice gets all sexy. I get loud and odd. You may want to adjust your computer's volume accordingly. No, really. Turn me down. Save your ears.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

I Will Never Wear My Underwear LIke Her, And It's Okay

2011-11-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

Who knows what started it:

Maybe I ate too many carbs at lunch. Maybe my stomach is angry that I keep sucking it in every time that hot computer guy walks by. Maybe I no longer have any idea whether I'm a normal weight or not because in one store I'm a size 2 and in the next I can barely squish my ass into a size 6. Or maybe I've read one too many articles about celebrities giving in to some pre-determined falsity of beauty.

Whatever the case, I am pissed.

I'm so fucking angry that day in and day out, I think about my body image. I hate that somewhere inside my mind there's a secret trapdoor that houses all sorts of thoughts about attaining a type of thinness which will never be comfortably possible for me. I can't stand that my immediate reaction to Victoria Secret commercials is envy, and then my second is shame. Shame? That I don't have the proportions a naturally tall and thin woman who admittedly has to starve herself anyway has? I might as well envy a Unicorn. Or a diamond ring. Or a diamond Unicorn. Or something else as equally beautiful and equally as impossible for me to ever be.

We all know it's a lie, talk about how it's a lie, create entire movements based on how it's a lie, and yet, most of us, somewhere deep down, kind of actually believe the lie. Even as we shout from the rooftops about the lie, we take notes on how to follow it.

I dream about a day when I'm secure enough in my opinions, thankful enough to my body, that I no longer secretly believe in complete bullshit. Maybe it will come with age, or with certain accomplishments, or a marriage to my soulmate Mr. Ryan So-Hot-He'll-Burn-Your-Face Gosling - but honestly, that moment can't come soon enough.

Asking the entire country to change its opinions isn't what I'm talking about. That sort of things takes decades, and I don't have that kind of time. I want the person I see in the mirror every morning to change her mind. In the end, she's the only one who matters.

Someday I'm going to be old, and then later I'll die, and the idea that I've wasted literal years of my life worrying about a young, healthy body and how it could be (impossibly) better makes me super annoyed at myself. I want to be healthy and strong but being those things isn't the same as being a supermodel. I will never be a supermodel. Never. Not in this life. They say never say never but I think in this case, never is the healthiest word I could utter to myself.

There are things in this life I can and want to change.

And then there are things which will never budge.

Which makes the most sense to worry about?

(Note: I will gladly accept free Victoria Secret underwear and bras for mentioning them in this blog. I enjoy sparkles, lace and the type adorned with priceless jewels)

Is It Just Me, Or Do Those Lions and Tigers Over There Look Super Hungry?

2011-11-03T19:16:00.003-06:00

“It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways."
~ the Buddha

Desire is a tricky word. It sounds nice, but in actuality, it sucks. Even the Buddha thinks it sucks. In fact, desire is one of his main detractors from a beautiful life. You can't desire and also live peacefully.

That means most of us are never going to reach enlightenment - especially in the US.
Desire is all we do here. Desire for more. Desire for other. For anything, really, that what we don't currently have.

I am supremely guilty of desire. I probably spend about 10% of my day wanting shit. A relationship, more money, fame, a house on the beach, a dog, to not look fat in photographs, the ability to stop my face from turning a weird shade of red when exercising...most of my thoughts gravitate toward the stuff I don't or could never have. It's pure masochism. And it's so weird, because I can shut it down - I just choose not to.

Sure, society doesn't make it easy ("you've been single for 18 months? What's wrong with you? ...No, really, you should get that checked out"), but ultimately, I can choose what to feel and what not to feel. I can refuse to feel like a loser when I walk around town on a Friday afternoon, dodging couple after couple, or watching one more I'm Engaged!!!! photo explosion happen on Facebook. I can refuse to feel untalented as studio after studio requests to read my work and then greets me with silence. I can sit in front of a mirror in pink underwear with hearts (is there any other kind?) and NOT feel like I could lose 10 pounds. I could do all of this. But most of the time, I let myself take the easy way out. Self-hatred is so much more familiar than empowerment.

I think a lot of people are here these days. Self-hatred, self-annoyance, feeling worthless or broke or fat or lame...so many of us in our late 20's and early 30's are questioning our lives in a way that only late 20-somethings and early 30-somethings stuck in a stagnant economy can, and what we're coming up with, isn't pretty.

Desire will fuck you up, especially when coupled with self-hate. Those two bitches are mean by themselves, but get them together, and you've got happiness Armageddon.

What gives me comfort though, and why I write when I feel at my most loserish, is that this fight isn't just between me and my individual flaws. We're all here. We're all facing the lion of Desire and the tiger of Self-Hate in a Colosseum together, kind of like that Russel Crowe movie where Russell Crowe was a Roman slave and not yet out of shape and into throwing phones. We can help each other. Through whatever medium works, through whatever actions are available to us. We might as well. Because we're all here together, and nobody's getting out without a lion bite or two.

I write because I want to do my part in helping other people out of the Colosseum. It makes sense to me and feels important. So even when I want to grab my laptop in both hands and smash it over my own head, or cry in an ugly pile of tears and sweat and 2 week old pajamas, I still keep at it. Because what the hell else am I going to do? Give up?

And when you write about your own lion fights, or talk to me about them, or do an angry dance in your room alone while screaming your rage out to Justin Bieber, it does immeasurable good. Because then I know I'm not alone, and I can stop wishing to be tall and thin and a millionaire, at least for a little while, because there are other people just like me out there and they're still alive, still finding ways to be happy - all without a mansion with a completely useless elevator or Brad Pitt as a husband.

I have this feeling that my family thinks I've turned into some kind of spiritual preacher - and they roll their eyes when I get on my soapbox and jab my fork in their direction, but it's only because I'm so passionate I could pass out over this: we. are. all. in. it. together -- so therefore, we. can. all. fight. as. one.

The unhealthy Desires and Self-Hates that glare at you at night - let them out of their cages.

Right now.

I promise to stand next to you.

...especially if you happen to be holding a candy bar.

Low-Fi Halloween Hijinks and also Stripper Shoes - Video Blog #1

2011-10-30T20:12:00.000-06:00

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

My most memorable Halloweens were the Halloweens

spent in New York City in my mid-20's.

They're memorable because I can't remember them.

My roommate and partner in these remarkably crazy nights, Ms. Maria, is still a friend (which is saying a lot, considering our apartment was the size of most people's garages and got so little sunlight I would have to check the weather online before I could get dressed), and one hell of a funny lady. I've been hemming and hawing over the idea of a video blog for some time, and since I have such a hard time listening to myself talk (my voice is so loud and abrasive to my own ears), I decided that featuring her in my very first video extravaganza would be exactly what the drunk slutty doctor ordered.

Please note:

* The quality is shit. My internet connection is from 1998

* That loud buzzing noise in the background of the entire video is actually the sound my computer makes all the time.

* I'm not sure if what you're about to watch is actually entertaining.

"Hey Girl, Your Loneliness Makes Me Cry A Crystal Tear of Hotness"

2011-10-17T20:35:00.000-06:00

“I think it's more interesting to see people who don't feel appropriately. I relate to that, because sometimes I don't feel anything at all for things I'm supposed to, and other times I feel too much. It's not always like it is in the movies.”

~Ryan Gosling

"Anyone special in your life?"

It's a familiar gauntlet, one that, no matter how many times I prepare myself, always makes me feel like an idiot as I stumble, trip and land on an answer that's as lame as it is brief.

"Not Really."

AKA, no.

I can tell the next question they want to ask. They pause for a second and then jump to a proactive spin on the situation, letting it die out of respect, but I know it's on the tip of their tongue anyway:

Why?

Fuck me if I have any idea.

It's obvious why some people on this earth are still single. Sociopaths, drama queens, bitter baggage-carriers that want to hate you before the first kiss - I mean, it makes sense why these people can't find a date. And yet - most of them still do. Even death row inmates land hot girlfriends. Throughout history, serial killer after serial killer has found themselves a partner. These are people who literally butcher other people. And they're still out on Friday night. While I'm watching Dateline, at home, pouring honey bourbon into my tea.

Most days I don't feel bad for being single. I don't feel weird that I'm attracted to about .3% of the men I see on a daily basis (Ryan Gosling, this does not pertain to you. I've seriously loved you for a decade). I'm not worried that casual dating makes me cringe or even that I watch Dateline on Friday nights (how else would I know about all these serial killers with girlfriends?). But then someone asks me a question -- "dating anyone?" "When are you going to get back out there?" -- and most of my confidence cracks, threatening to shatter open.

I don't have answers.

At this point, I know what I want, what I won't settle for and how many years I've got before I start wearing curlers in my hair everywhere I go and pray to a shrine of some washed up actor who was hot when I was a nubile young thing (Ryan Gosling?). A relationship does not make or break a life, but when you've been without something beautiful for so long, you start to forget that you have emotions besides frustration after you spill mushroom soup on your beige pants.

It'll happen when I least expect it, they say.

But just in case it never does (and there are days when that certainly feels like the truth),

I think I'll get back in the habit of cutting out every picture of Ryan Gosling I come across.

You know,

for my shrine.

Grieving The Old and Breathing In The New - World Mental Health Day

2011-10-10T07:00:00.000-06:00

[When I'm not eating chips with guacamole or fighting with my newest screenplay, I'm working for PsychCentral.com, one of the most comprehensive mental health sites on the web.

It's a pretty amazing place, and I have learned bucketfuls of information since starting with them.

Mental Health isn't always a comfortable topic, but it's an essential one. That's why PsychCentral, in partnership with numerous other sites and blogs is participating in World Mental Health Day, today, October 10th.

And since I've never met a party I didn't like - I've decided to join in.]

The I in illness is isolation,

and the crucial letters in wellness are we.
~ Anonymous

I've been reading a book that makes me sob almost daily (although I try to sob quietly, considering my roommate is just a wall away). It's a Buddhist perspective on death and dying, and while I'm blessed to not be dealing directly with death at the moment, I can feel parts of me shriveling up and disappearing just the same.

It's all part of trend that started about a year ago, when lots of definites and for sures began to crumble and crack all around me. It sounds scary, saying it that way, and it was (it still is), but the funny thing is that the less certain my life has become, the healthier and happier I've felt.

And maybe that's why I find myself sobbing every time I read this damn book, I'm grieving all the things I was never able to feel when I was simply surviving.

Growing up, I had a lot of rules set in place. Rules about who my family members were, who I was, what my future would look like, how the world worked, how spirituality happened...I spent a lot of time building these rules, and then more time repairing them, whenever something tried to break them down. As an anxiety-prone, sensitive child, rules were essential to my existence. The more rules I had, the easier the day was. Whenever life felt overwhelming, I would just retreat back to the things I knew to be true, and found solace in their concreteness. It didn't matter that some of these rules didn't particularly serve me ("I will never be beautiful, so...", "I'm just not athletic..."), they were rules and they were unshakable and they were safe.

And then, seemingly overnight (I mean like really overnight), my rules stopped feeling safe and started feeling suffocating.

As I unravel old beliefs, dismantle old conventions and let go of childish security blankets, both fear and happiness are beginning to rush in with a force I'm not accustomed to. Daily life is bright, even when it feels flat, because I'm operating from a conscious place, a questioning place, a place that wants to see the world without a blurry prescription based on a smothering set of self-imposed laws.

I still worry. I often feel lonely and confused and wish with all my heart someone had a manual already drawn up for this – but now that I'm here, there's just no going back. Opening myself up to the possibility that I am more than previously imagined, that most of the world is more than previously imagined, has given me a type of air in my lungs I wish everyone could breathe.

We're taught that life's easier when we swim downstream. When we abide by conventional wisdom and let other people do the thinking for us. And it is.

But it certainly isn't as beautiful.

I Could Have Spent That $65 on Something So Much More Awesome...

2011-10-02T22:03:00.000-06:00

"Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your won presence rather than of the absence of others. Because solitude is an achievement"

~Alice Koller

I tried. I ignored the way I really felt and just dived in. Everyone seemed so happy that I was finally doing something proactive my relationship life that I couldn't back out. So I held my breath and tried to find something about online dating that didn't set my teeth on edge. Be positive, I ordered myself. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just be a normal person and go on a few dates for godsake.

But apparently I can't operate like a normal person, because it was impossible.

Even though I've been relationship-less for a little over year, I never had a complex about it. The thoughts and judgements would creep in every once in a while, but it wasn't anything that really brought me down. As soon as I signed on to that stupid little homescreen, through, wondering who had messaged or winked or replied back, my DATING LIFE (or LACK THEREOF) turned into caps and became all encompassing.

It was awful. You may think I'm being overly dramatic and there's always the possibility that you're right, but I really would characterize it as awful. The split-second decisions based purely on looks, the attempts at emailed conversation with someone you know nothing about, the sinking feeling when someone you thought was foxy doesn't reply back...it's kind of like if junior high and Photoshop got together and kicked you in the face.

No one likes rejection. But it wasn't just rejection - it was the atmosphere of forced interaction based purely on a fear of being alone.

I'm not afraid to be alone. Even if it's not my preferred state, I'm not afraid of going to bed with a pillow to hug instead of man - but I swear to god, these last two months on that stupid fucking site made me more scared to wake up by myself than I've ever been in my entire life. I started to buy into the bullshit that I had to scramble to couple myself up, and with every typed interaction that didn't go my way, I became more and more frustrated with my looks, my opinions, my sense of humor...because surely all these things were the reasons the guys I wanted were running for the hills.

There are some people who will find the loves of their lives online, but I can clearly say, without an ounce of hesitation, that I will never be one of them.

I really have no idea how I'll bump into my next relationship. And I don't know how long it will take until it happens. The trick will be maintaining a calm demeanor until that day (or night). The trick will be deflecting other people's worry that I've been alone too long. The trick will be not feeling inadequate as more and more friends get married. The trick will be resisting the urge to see myself as either coupled or alone - and instead focusing on the obvious truth that in the scope of things, it doesn't really matter.

It's Just Drinks - Why Are You In The Fetal Position?

2011-09-18T22:01:00.000-06:00

“Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.”

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day we were supposed to meet, I realized I was miserable.

It was more than just the fact that it was going to be a first meeting between two people who had only said hi online two weeks earlier (although that was awkward enough), it was the thought of putting myself out there and possibly being disappointed. Again.

I think it's fair to say that love has proven to be an unruly creature in my life. My brushes with it have not been without wounds that go all the way to the bone. Just a year ago I was involved in something that was the antitheses of what I want Love to look like, and the fallout was rough. It took 13 months to recognize where I had gone wrong, again, and what I had allowed to shake my internal self, again. Again and again. Maybe that was the last time I would ever drown in a cheap imitation of what I truly want (I think it was), but it didn't help my belief in the real thing.

While I operate from an open-hearted, happy place, there's a part of me that's always suspicious. A part that's deeply analytical about an emotion that's supposedly undefinable. As the hours ticked away and our meeting got closer, I could feel that part start to kick and scream.

I don't want to do this. I'd rather be alone, honestly. Let's just stay here; quiet and collected with a freshly made bed and a life lived on solo time. Let's tell him we're sick.

My depressed state got so intense that I had to go for a drive in the mountains. I tried, over and over again, to understand why my heart pushed against the idea of literally just getting drinks. And all it kept saying is that it didn't want to be let down one more time. It had found, in these 13 months of solitude, a beautiful quiet that it didn't want disrupted.

In the end I met him for drinks (or drink, since more than one usually means I'll try to turn my shirt inside out in front of large crowds of people) - and it was completely and utterly fine. Fun, even. As I do my best to practice non-attachment, I can't say what will come of it, but even if I never hear from him again, or it doesn't work out, and "disappointment" tries to flutter over everything, I won't let my heart accept it as a negative.

Because scars are just ugly marks unless we learn from them. And if I've learned anything from this crazy ride I can't remember ever buying a ticket for, it's that every choice I make around Love, is my choice to make. My self-worth is not connected to someone else, whether it's a phone call that never comes or 10 years of a beautiful relationship, and no one can make me feel anything I don't first give myself the okay to feel.

Of course I want that awesome relationship.

But I've also got to live in the here and now, where it doesn't currently exist, and still find peace.

I hope it comes for me soon.

But until then, I'll keep pestering my heart

to tip-toe out into the wild,

unruly,

unpredictable,

world.

I Don't Want Them To See Me And Say, 'There's The Cat Lady Who Knows All The Strippers' Names'

2011-09-06T16:43:00.000-06:00

“Save a boyfriend for a rainy day - and another, in case it doesn't rain”

~ Mae West

I have not dated for a year.

A little over a year, in fact.

This would be super depressing if it wasn't half-expected and also half my fault.

It's expected because it's a pattern of mine: Long-term relationship <--> Long-term aloneness <--> Long-term relationship...it's just the way things have worked out, for better or worse. Years ago I would sometimes fill that long-term aloneness with situations I like to call "things" because they do not warrant a name any more specific than that, but since I'm not into "things" anymore, I've really been alone.

And it's kind of my fault because casual dating makes me want to vomit. And then maybe stab myself with glass so I can go to the hospital instead of on a casual date. Because why spend time with someone unless you really like them and want it to go somewhere? I don't like spending time with people I'm not interested in, and I really don't like people I'm not interested in spending money on me. It feels like I'm stealing. I might as well reach into their pocket and grab their wallet while they're not looking.

This is probably an intense way of looking at it, but, I mean, hey.
I'm intense.

So after realizing that sitting around and waiting for a hot doctor or hot CEO or hot millionaire who saves the world to materialize in the middle of the street while I'm driving to work probably wasn't going to happen, I decided to cover my eyes, take a breath, and sign on to an online dating site.

I know.

Believe me.

BUT. As un-lonely and independent as I am, it's not like I want to be 80 years old, covered in cat fur, proudly telling anyone who will listen how I've been to Chippendales like 14989 times because I don't have to worry about a jealous husband. I mean, I'd like to meet someone awesome. And they don't grow on trees. And so I just decided. And am doing my best to not be negative or all sarcastic every time someone asks.

It's kind of like I'm standing on top of a hill, waving a magenta flag, telling the Universe that I'm ready. However we meet, I'm ready to meet.

Especially because I don't even like cats that much.

When She Was Good, She Was Very, Very Good. But When She Was Bad, She Was Horrid

2011-08-28T15:11:00.000-06:00

“A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success"

~ Elbert Hubbard

When I win a contest,

or place well in a contest,

or someone with clout is interested in my work,

I feel good.

I'm certain I'm doing the right thing with my life. If tell people I'm a writer, if they ask. I daydream about typing up an award-winning script in an adorable beach bungalow, my cherry red Mustang parked in the driveway (I realize that is a cheezy car choice. But I still want it). All is right with the world and I'm enthused about whatever new project my brain has pushed into my consciousness.

But when I lose a contest,

or don't even place,

or someone with clout forgets about me,

I feel awful.

I beat myself up for wasting a third of my life on something that isn't even real. I try to avoid telling people what I do. I feverishly click through Craigslist and Mediabistro and a bunch of other jobs sites, trying to find another full time career. I start to have nightmares about not having enough money and growing old without ever accomplishing anything of merit. The last thing I want to do is work on something new.

You'd think, by this point in my life, I wouldn't be so ruled by outside judgments.

Ha ha. Of course I'm still ruled by outside judgments.

The only way I'd be free of them is if I lived in a vacuum, or a cave where my only friends were bats and stalagmites.

The truth of the matter is - I have no idea if I'll be successful or not. I want to be. And I think that intense want is the thing that pushes me back up after I sink to the ground in defeat, but at this point, desire and the fleeting joy of creating is all I've got. I don't have guarantees either way, just moments of happiness and despair, positive career benchmarks and embarrassing rejections. Maybe learning to stay afloat on the nauseating ocean gets easier as you get older - or maybe it's the opposite.

"You'll know when it's time to move on," my Mom once told me. "Either it'll happen or you'll be able to walk away and still be happy."

That sounds good.

Either way, I hope she's right.

They Do Not Serve Pineapple Drinks Here. But The Washing Machine is Great

2011-08-19T20:35:00.000-06:00

“A vacation is a sunburn at premium prices”

~ Hal Chadwicke

When I visit my parents,

it's like I get on an amusement park ride that I don't have to pay for

that consists mostly of working washing machines, a never-empty refrigerator, surround sound
and expensive shampoo.

To some people, this ride might seem boring. Not to me. I love this ride. This ride is awesome. This ride is my version of a vacation. This ride is my only vacation. So I soak up every air-conditioned, 19847 channeled minute.

Old friends, familiar roads, rambling farms...these are things I fall in love with each and every time I come back here. I don't love them enough to stay, obviously, but certainly enough to deal with two layovers and billions of screaming babies and a week of humidity.

As much as I wish I had the money to watch a hot cabana boy bring me a pineapple-flavored drink as I sit on a deck chair on some white sandy beach, going home is still pretty great. It's like a reboot. A What's-Important reboot. And sometimes I need that.

But I could do without the frizzy hair.

The Economy VS Melted Cat Poop

2011-08-10T21:54:00.003-06:00

“If you ever catch on fire, try to avoid seeing yourself in the mirror, because I bet that's what REALLY throws you into a panic"

~ Jack Handy

I like the save my panic button for certain situations:

Fighting a lion in a Greek amphitheater with nothing but my bare fists

Being chased through the woods by aliens

A chipmunk karate chopping through the window screen and chewing my copious amount of in-room Christmas lights until they catch fire one night and burn the entire building down...

Big things, you know?
Life altering, all-consuming things.

One thing I will not panic about is the stock market. Another thing is the economy. Not unless it's obvious and unavoidable the sky is falling. Until then - I reserve my freak outs for when the cat my roommate is cat-sitting decides to take a giant shit on my laundry basket and allow it to marinate there for an entire workday.

...Yup.

So now I wonder, would happen if everyone in the US did the same - reeled their heavy breathing and stress eating in - and refused to let others tell them when they should go nuts? What if we all just collectively said fuck it, went about our business, and kept pushing toward a better day, regardless of what the news or experts or analysts said? What if we didn't snatch our money to our chests like Gollum and instead continued to buy things we could afford?

I know we're all Recession-shy. Believe me. I think I make less than $28,000 a year but I'm too afraid to actually check. I buy most of my clothes from Target or second hand stores. I price check everything. Blah blah blah. The reality is, I'm still middle class. And because I'm one of the lucky ones who isn't facing certain financial ruin at this very minute, it's my duty to ignore most of what those shrieking idiots are saying and refuse to open up my door to fear.

Because, very much like sexy Louisianian vampires, fear has to ask to be let in.

Maybe you want to join me. Maybe you don't. But if you can, I think maybe you should. I think you should make you own decisions. Check your own moral compass. Ignore the agenda of others. Educate yourself. And then decide when it's time to get out the emergency peanut butter cups and wine - and when it's not.

Because when the day arrives that you find melted cat shit all over your laundry

you will need all the panic energy

your body possesses.

Not A Career For The Rational - Or Easily Homicidal

2011-08-02T21:13:00.004-06:00

“This is the highest wisdom that I own; freedom and life are earned by those alone who conquer them each day anew”

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

If I told you:

I could place among the Top 10 Finalists in one National Screenwriting competition

then enter the same competition the next year with a different script,

and not even place at all,

while simultaneously being a Quarter Finalist in the Nicholls Screenwriting Fellowship

(1 of approximately 350 scripts out of 6700 to get through)

What would you say?

In all reality, there's really nothing to say. At least nothing I haven't already said to myself, over either a stiff drink or in a fit of tears. Screenwriting, like a lot of art, is subjective as fuck. It just is. It'll never change. The sun will set, the wind will whistle through the trees, and some dumb idiot will give the go ahead to Final Destination 5 or The Fast and Furious 6940 and they will both make money while a multitude of challenging, unique scripts gather dust underneath people's couches.

Good movies are made every day.
But so are bad movies.

The one connecting tissue is dollar signs. Or perceived dollar signs. Which may or may not deliver.

Perhaps the reason I've been able to stop myself from yanking out all my hair and slamming my bald head into a wall is that I have learned to not let this career choice define me. I have other interests, other things that fill me with happiness, a semi-grounded sense of self and a keen eye for certain undeniable facts of life. The business of Screenwriting, of Hollywood, is always going to be odd and just a little bit unbelievable. Persistence, luck and connections are always going to be the way in, and talent will forever be susceptible to someone else's judgment.

At a certain point, I have to be okay with what I've knowingly tangled myself up in.
I don't have to bow down to it, but I do have to accept the rules of the game.

Screenwriting is a big part of my life,

but it's not everything.

And so I'm teaching myself to laugh and shake my head, instead of punch a wall and nurse a desire to kill. It's not always easy, but no one's died yet, so I guess I'm getting somewhere.

The Girl Who's Always Tired Is Tired Of Apologizing

2011-07-25T16:07:00.001-06:00

“Sleep is the best meditation”

~ Dalai Lama

Surprisingly, I don't always enjoy all parts of me.

There are compartments to my personality I sometimes want to duck and cover from - but of course that's impossible. While I can certainly fix habits that need some maintenance or work really hard to rewire my thoughts, there are a few things that are just rooted in my being, that make me who I am - imperfect and quirky.

One of these things is my inability to stay up late.

Oh sure, I can force it. I can drink shitloads of caffeine before going out, take another kind of stimulate, or sleep all afternoon, but if you catch me on an average day, I like waking up early and going to bed by ten. I'm aware, in a lot of people's eyes, that this makes me some kind of half-lame nerd, but considering I used to shoot awake at dawn as an infant, I'm pretty sure this behavior is ingrained.

I've caught a ton of flack for my early ways, espescially by friends who want to play past midnight. I can't tell you how many times I've been teased about falling asleep on someone's couch while the drama goes down in another room, or how many nights I've walked home alone from the bars because everyone else wants to do another shot. In New York, someone even coined a term: "Jess-ing out" - which either means leaving early, falling asleep at home before the group even makes it to the first bar, or choosing a night relaxing instead of raging.

God how I hated that term.

It made me feel like a kid who loses his glasses on the monkey bars and then can't get down: awkward and laughable.

In the past, I would really flip whenever someone teased me about my pre-midnight curfew. I'd get all riled up and shout something sarcastic in their face and then force myself to brave the bar for another two hours. I'll show you, I'd think, ordering a second or third vodka soda. I'm cool. So shut the fuck up.

But now, just days away from turning 28, I've given up the fight.

Mostly because, well, I'm too tired to continue the charade.

The truth, the absolute, God-honest reality is that yes, unless I'm really stimulated by my environment, if it's any later than 11pm, I'd rather be sleeping. A major reason for this is probably because ever since I was 14 I've been taking medication for an auto-immune disease that can really wreak havoc on my energy levels, but ultimately, it's all about the awesome factor: if what I'm doing isn't adding to the beauty of my life, I see no reason to continue.

I can run around until 3 in the morning with the best of them if there's a super hot guy involved or really great friends doing something equally as great, but if it's just a loud bar full of drunk people trying to hook up - count me out. I'm tired of that scene. I'll join in every once in a while, but if I'm not feeling it, I'm outta there. I don't care about the drink specials or the guy who might not have a girlfriend in the corner. If it's not making my life more awesome, there's no need to stay.

I'll be 28 years old on Wednesday.

I think it's time to stop apologizing for something that just is.

So if it's a Friday night, and they're wondering why they haven't heard from me, it's very possible I've washed off all my make-up, made myself a mug of tea, and climbed into bed.

Happily.

[Unless there's a hot male stripper there. In that case - I'm just late. Save me a seat]

Knowledge: The Thinking Girl's Patriotism

2011-07-18T21:18:00.003-06:00

“Knowledge is of no value unless you put it into practice.”

~ Anton Chekhov

I used to tell people I wasn't political.

Everyone's always yelling and lying, I'd say whenever the conversation came up. I'm educated enough to understand the issues, but that's it. Count me out for the rest of it.

And then, like a lot of things in my life - one day, it all changed.

No, I didn't start dating a hot, young Congressman. I didn't even start sexting one. I just got sick and tired of being confused. I got fed up with soundbite politics, the kind of shit that passes for news these days, full of smirks and snark. If you're smirking while you're delivering the news, you're not delivering the news. You're delivering facts drowned in opinion.

And look, sometimes that opinion is hilarious and I agree with it, but handing over my blind trust to someone, even if they seem cool, is dangerous. That's when people get talked into things. Like weird tasting Kool-Aid.

Republican, Democrat...it doesn't matter to me. Even though I'm obviously liberal (you don't grow up in a feminist household loving rainbows and glitter and unicorns without also falling in love with a few gay men and realizing your reproductive rights are no one's business but your own), I no longer just take their word for it - whoever they are. I research on my own time. I follow the trail. And then I decide, for myself, exactly what the fuck is going on.

And really, isn't this what everyone should be doing? Instead of backing into a corner, claiming we're "not political" so as not to get into a screaming match with Aunt Martha over Thanksgiving dinner, why not just educate ourselves to the point where we don't have to scream? When we know enough to have an educated discussion, or at least to understand emotional bias when we see it, it's far less likely that we'll end up hucking a turkey leg across the table.*

It's a work in progress.

I probably know about 3% of what there is to know - but slowly, I'm unraveling the unnecessarily
complicated world of men in suits.

Uncovering a faint whiff of the truth,

is how I honor my country,

and how I choose to fight back against dickhead idiots

who continuously put personal gain

before the greater good.

[*Okay, let's be honest. Some people's political jargon is so warped that a turkey leg is the nicest thing we want to throw. When dealing with these individuals, I recommend taping your mouth shut, but leaving a small straw-sized hole into which you can suck up copious amounts of wine.]

I Will Not Barf - Instead, I Will Change

2011-07-08T14:08:00.000-06:00

“There is no comparison between that which is lost by not succeeding and that lost by not trying.”

~Francis Bacon, Sr.

Sometimes we receive information that makes us want to barf.

The information can be awful, difficult, or maybe just too intense to process, and as our minds desperately try to understand what we've just read, or heard, or saw, our stomach decides to take control: would you like me to solve this problem by vomiting, brain? It'll only take a second. Honest.

For some reason, our stomach thinks this is just a primo solution.

I had one of these moments today. I'm fine, everyone's fine, it was more a I-Didn't-Need-to-Know-But-Now-I-Can't-Unknow-It type of thing; information that made me feel less than stellar about my own accomplishments and current life standing. Worst of all, it ricocheted into my eyes while I was at work, so any and all plans of having a quick little meltdown were completely squashed. Instead, I just went about my business, shakily picking up the phone, nervously filing the mail, attempting to make small talk without suddenly losing my shit.

After breathing my way back into some form of clearer thinking, I realized what caused the initial stomach turning: I'm not content with where I'm at, and it makes me feel awful about myself.

I want more. I want to feel like I'm making a difference in this world. I enjoy my jobs now, but I can't help thinking I'm supposed to be doing something else. Screenwriting is part of that something else – but there's more. Supporting the creativity of children; specifically the shy, the disadvantaged, the unique, has been a desire for a while. I've done bits and pieces of it, but I want to expand. Does that mean teaching creative writing at a school? Starting my own program? Finding a way to travel around and share it with as many kids as possible?

I don't know. Mostly, I don't know because I want to write movies that show up in big theaters just as much as I want to dedicate my life to serving kids; so where do I put my concentration? Can I do both? Equally? The role of the traditional teacher isn't necessarily for me; so then what does that mean?

When I see or hear of others living their dream and getting recognition for it, I can't help but become a sad sort of envious. It takes an enormous amount of will power to sweep that feeling from my skin, and even then, there are still tiny particles, floating in and out of my consciousness, for days afterward.

So what really made my stomach ask my brain if it could to unload breakfast onto my desk? Not the actual unsavory information I experienced, but how I saw myself in relation to it.

I want to shift my life. I want to change things. Majorly. I want to feel success between my fingers and joy on my way to work. And because I'm not currently there, I feel like I'm cheating myself. I'm letting the 12-year-old idealistic girl who wears sparkly pink unicorn shirts and dreams of making a big difference down. And worst of all? My competitive, perfectionistic streak knows I'm vulnerable, and is taking full advantage. Choruses of: you are lame lalalala have been circling my head for weeks.

Comparing ourselves to others will never work - but it won't stop until I find at least a whisper of what I'm looking for.

...and / or chocolate cake with my name on it.

Exploding Sparklers and the Kind Of Freedom I Struggle With

2011-07-03T17:12:00.003-06:00

“I know but one freedom and that is the freedom of the mind.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Is it ever possible gain

Independence

from negativity?

There are certain questions I'd like to sit down across from the Buddha and ask him (maybe over a glass of wine? or better yet, celestial wine, which is sure to beat the $3 Whole Foods Cabernet we currently have in the fridge) - and this whole negativity struggle is one of them.

How do I stop judging people I can't stand? How do I wring utter distaste from my heart? Why can't I seem to let certain shitty deeds of yesterday go?

I'd like to think I'm a nice person; a being doing her best to live an awakened and conscious life, a girl who has a hard time killing spiders, even as they dangle dangerously over her bed, someone who rarely says things she can't take back... And still. There doesn't seem to be enough room in my heart to share loving kindness with people I deem douchebag assholes.

Sometimes these people are individuals who seem to have no emotional intelligence, or are stubbornly uneducated, or just plain rude. People who are basically considered lame across the board. But then there are the people who have personally hurt me - and these people are the hardest - because they may be fine to the rest of the world, but in my mind, they're just full of awfulness. Or at least 2/3rds full.

As I understand myself more, I realize what I will not tolerate. And as I start to tolerate less crap and disrespect, I find myself frustrated at a greater level. The carousel of my memory takes me back to all the stupid things I knowingly let happen, and it becomes significantly difficult not to want to kick a wall in anger at everyone involved in past wounds (myself included).

The Buddha would probably tell me to let the anger go,
but at this point, all I can do is notice it and maybe take it down to a simmer.

Would I eventually like to set off some fireworks in celebration of finally defeating my heavy, oily, rancid anger? Of course. But in all honestly, that's probably never going to happen - especially when you consider my lifelong ineptness with pyrotechnics: at 5 years old I accidentally threw a sparkler into my brother's face and just missed scalding him for life, and just last weekend I almost set the tree above our grill aflame.

I'm not sure I'll ever defeat my negativity, but at this point in my development, I can at least notice it and make it into something concrete enough to hold. Then I can look at it and decide if I'm capable of offering love, or at the very least compassion, to the thing or the person that birthed it. And sometimes I can. But all those times that I can't...I don't try to deny it - I allow it to live for as long as it needs to, knowing all the while that emotion is very rarely reality.

So this holiday weekend, while overly confident people all over the US almost set their houses on fire with illegal dynamite, I'll acknowledge my personal fight for freedom and celebrate the process.

...And make sure I'm waving my sparkler far away in the corner,

lest my clumsiness cause another innocent victim

to experience a face full of metallic fuel.

I've Got Regrets, And I'm Not Afraid To Use Them

2011-06-23T21:40:00.001-06:00

“My one regret in life is that I am not someone else”

~ Woody Allen

I know lots of people who say they have no regrets.

I wonder if that's really possible.

Me, I have regrets. It's not a depressing thing - it's just a thing. A truth. There are words I wish I hadn't said. Heartbreak I wish I hadn't felt. People I honestly wish I had never met and decisions if only I had never made. Going back in time is impossible, so I understand the thought process of seeing everything as a learning opportunity, but I'd be lying if I told you I'm happy with everything life has dropped into my lap.

I may be a better person, a more empathetic person, a smarter person, but that doesn't change the fact that shattered glass hurts - and can never be put back together quite the same way.

Sometimes I'll spend the entire night running my finger over the disfigured imprints of my regrets. Why? Because if it's gone deep enough, it'll never be repeated. That's the strength in admitting you have them in the first place: this cut me so deep, I simply couldn't survive a second go.

Walking alone at night in the soft summer heat is the safest way to face what I never want to face again. I can almost see the romance in everything, the gothic beauty of crying alone in your bed, of staring at a wall in blank desperation, stumbling into the sunlight without any sense of direction...I could almost write a sonnet or something - and then, my rational side shakes me awake: did someone melt your dumb brain? That shit sucked.

And I blink and realize that yes, that shit did indeed suck.

So yes, I have regrets.
I may never tell you about them, fully, but they're with me every single day.

They're the heaviest kind of jewlery,

the kind that only sparkles every so often, in just the right light.

...Which is why, since I've decided to take this little bite of the internet public, I've erased a good deal of old work. Some of the entries I erased were good, some of them were just kind of awful (I don't want you to ever think I write anything less than gold dipped in more gold), and some were just too personal, with too much information about myself or others. At one time, it may have been my intent to hurt people, or at least anonymously drag them through the mud, with my words, but not anymore.

Because obviously, I am Jesus.

But seriously - everything you read from now on is the truth.

The plain and honest kind.
The kind of stuff I'd tell you over some delicious sangria.

And if you get me drunk enough,

I may even show you some of my scars.

My Grill Overflowith

2011-06-19T22:24:00.000-06:00

“Children learn to smile from their parents”

~ Shinichi Suzuki

Sometimes there's so much love in our heart for someone

it hurts if we think too much about it.

My parents were visiting this weekend. And while it was, at times, exhausting (and kind of like a time warp back to when I was sixteen), it was also beautiful. No matter what our relationships were like when I was a kid, I love them beyond description now. And it's not just because they buy me things (although that helps). Mostly, it's because I know they believe in me. Even when I don't believe in me, and what I'm capable of, they refuse to give up.

If you're an artist, you need people who do not waiver in their belief. They don't always need to think you're a genius, but they need to know, down to the soles of their feet, that you'll make it. You need at least one of these people. If you're lucky, you get two. Who are related.

When I think about what they've given me,

what the gift of encouragement really means,

I immediately want to burst open and cry.

Because I know I can't ever repay them.

There's so little in life that makes me mushy (cute puppies drinking from a puddle notwithstanding), but the gratefulness I feel every time my dad leans across the table and tells me he's positive I'm going to make it...it reduces me to liquid love. No matter what else happens in this life, I'm lucky.

...Especially because they bought me a phat grill on Saturday.

I Had a Dream, A Dream About You, Baby...

2011-06-10T13:44:00.002-06:00

“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.”

~ August Wilson

In my dream,

I got angry.

Some guy questioned my integrity (who has dreams like this, by the way?) and I just let him have it, screaming inches from his face,

my entire dream body humming with the desire to prove him wrong.

You would think I would wake up from this dream feeling awful, but that didn't happen. I woke up energized. Proud. I woke up ready to do more of it in real life.

Not flip the fuck out on people - that rarely produces awesome results - but stand up for me. Allow my politeness to melt into my truth. To quit allowing my voice to get high-pitched and soft whenever I speak to higher-ups at work or apologizing for shit that just isn't my fault. To stop beating myself up over things I can't change or people that just don't get it. To cancel my subscription to wishing and replace it with either knowing or just letting go.

I rarely get angry the way I got angry in my dream, and when I say rarely, I mean, I can't remember the last time it happened.
There's lots of reasons for this, from my childhood to being horrified at seeing people lose their temper around me constantly, but my fuse has gone from firecracker kid (I literally kicked walls. Over and over again, like a baby Hulk) to the slowest burn imaginable. I don't like losing it. It hurts my heart and makes me completely forget who I am and put everything second to my emotions. But my enthusiasm upon waking this morning proved something - freaking the fuck out and firmly standing up for yourself are separate things. You don't need one to be ready for the other.

It'll take time to replace some of my weird behavior; behavior that I guess women sometimes grow into: the aforementioned polite-squeak, the tendency to laugh when something actually sucks, the fear of pissing off someone who deserves to be pissed off, and just a general tendency to feel as though who I am is less than who They Are.

I guess knowing these things is half the battle - but at this point, I'm over half-assing it.
It may not be time to throw down,

but it's certainly time

to gain strength.

Hello Aloneness, My Old Friend

2011-06-05T11:39:00.000-06:00

“The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.”
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I remember what independence is.

It's been almost 2 years since I've been here and I can feel my body stumbling back into the rhythm. After a year of living with a man I went straight into 10 months of community; 7 women in one house. Most people shudder at that description, but it was honestly one of the best 10 months of my life, cooking, cleaning, working, laughing, crying with an amazing group of people was at once incredibly freeing and monumentally nurturing. I was never alone, even when I thought I wanted to be; a family away from my first family.

The new apartment is fantastic, and so is the new roommate (not to mention that the place comes with a fucking awesome dog, free of charge), but I find myself suddenly pausing throughout my day; making dinner or writing in my room or strolling through the farmer's market, and realizing that I'm on my own. There are people all around me and people I can always call or possibly run into on the street, but the truth is, I'm living an independent life again.

It's taken some work to not freak out (where is everyone and what are they doing and why aren't I invited?!), but as I cautiously push the reeds of this familiar state of being, I realize that this time around, independence doesn't ache.

In New York, being on my own felt like a sentence handed down by a really unfair celestial judge; you will have no man, no extended family, and spend a lot of time alone with your brain. Alone meant lonely, and sometimes depressed, and wounded, and bored. I hated my independence. I wanted it to leave me alone.

But it's different now. Alone doesn't mean lonely anymore. Alone simply means what it says; in the absence of someone else.

Whenever anxiety or desperation starts to simmer (everyone is getting married or doing something awesome and I'm making risotto for one?!), I lean back on one of the absolute truths of this existence: we are born, and will die, by ourselves. If I can't learn to love and live with the only person who will always stick by me, real peace will be impossible to find.

At this point in my journey, most of the time, alone doesn't mean lonely. And while I may not currently have a marriage or a house or a new car or even a washing machine, I have the ability to find pure contentment in solitary silence.

Cue light golf claps of Monks all over the world.

My Summer Of Beauty

2011-05-29T18:26:00.002-06:00

“The joy of life consists in the exercise of one's energies, continual growth, constant change, the enjoyment of every new experience. To stop means simply to die."

~ Aleister Crowley

I just spent the last 48 hours moving all my bullshit across town - a task that would usually make me homicidal - into one of the best apartments I've ever laid eyes on. For whatever reason, it's perfect. No air conditioning or washer / dryer? Who cares. I have a fucking chandelier in my bedroom.

I'm not going to overthink it this summer.

The existential boxing match I've been engaged in since February has smashed me into a heap on the floor and now it's time for a water break. God, fate, if I'm living a worthy life, why my path feels so different from the majority of my friends, if someone's opinion means I'm talented...I think I'm going to put it all down for a few months. If I don't, I'm going to do some permanent damage.

Summer is when I feel most alive, anyway - and I don't want to waste these precious months stuck inside my head. Come September, we'll see. There's so much room for things to shift in 4 months, and if I've learned anything, it's that rushing big changes only mucks up the gears.

I want to enjoy. I want to relish. Love. Laugh. Cook. Eat. Plant. Dance. Have sex (for the love of god it's almost been a year and I've never gone this long before and I think I might gnaw off my own leg). Sleep. Write. Sing. Hike. Smile. Swim. Forgive. Forget. Find Peace. Sink into yoga. Sweat. Give back. Reach out. Remember why I'm here.

This is my summer

of beauty.

[What's this summer to you?]

Sometimes When You Throw In The Towel, It Jumps Right Back Out

2011-05-18T20:33:00.001-06:00

“Just don't give up on trying to do what you really want to do. Where there is love and inspiration, I don't think you can go wrong.”

~ Ella Fitzgerald

For about a week, I wanted to crumple up everything I had ever written and set it on fire. This happens once every six months. I'll finish something that tore my brain apart and my heart to shreds to the quiet golf claps of certain extended family members and it just won't make sense - why did I just fucking do that to myself? And then I'll go research hotels in the Caribbean or Fiji that have openings for waitresses and decide that I'm moving to an island and learning how to become a cake decorator.

It's a weird pattern.

But we all have weird patterns.

Then - out of nowhere, something will politely pluck the lighter and gasoline from my grasp and tiptoe them away from me. At least for a little while.

Inspiration comes so suddenly and in such odd forms that I can't ever tell when it's going to smack me in the face, but when it does, it's obvious; my body will sparkle on the inside and I'll want to grab the nearest stranger and tell them about the ideas bubbling up.

Time has taught me that most people don't really give a shit about my personal inspiration, so these days I mostly keep it to myself, writing ideas and bits of dialogue down on napkins, daydreaming on the treadmill until I realize I'm about to slam into the side of it. I turn my car stereo up to impossible decibels and watch scenes in my head unfold faster than I could ever type them down. I'll find songs that just have to be incorporated into the script and listen to them over and over until my roommates get concerned and stick their heads into my room. When I'm inspired, my excitement kind of matches the type of excitement most people feel when they've just started dating a total fox -- which either makes me quirky or just...you know, insane.

I wasn't looking for inspiration - really I just wanted a one way ticket to Barbados - but it skidded to a stop right in front of me in the form of a text message and then an unrelated news story a few days ago and became so insistent that ignoring it would have made Eugene O'Neill kick off the top of his coffin and come find me. And we know how I feel about zombies.

Of course, inspiration isn't the same thing as "guaranteed hit that everyone will love and which will make you a sexy millionaire and the wife of Ryan Gosling," but at the very least, it's reinforcement that I will forever be a writer - a closet nerd who spends hours daydreaming about that which does not yet exist. No matter where I run or how often I decide to become a hostess at a fancy strip joint, this is just something I can't undo. It's woven into my sinew, breathing behind my eyes, the thing that keeps me going after months of hearing soft golf claps at best and at worst - nothing at all.

Isn't this how you know you love something?
When you love it even though you hate it?

When you want to nurture it even after it just poked you in the eye?

...If not - something is very, very wrong with my head.

Stick A Fork In Me

2011-05-14T10:30:00.001-06:00

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion...I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.”

~Kurt Vonnegut

I'm done.

Someone turned the heat up to 550 degrees and then just left me inside the oven

and now the whole place smells like smoke and dinner's completely ruined.

For about 5 months, I thought I had a sinus infection. Every couple of weeks I'd get a horrible headache, feel completely detached from my body, and only want to sleep. I tried everything. I know people say that sort of thing all the time but seriously - I tried it all. Back and forth to doctors, natropaths, weird herbal healers who gave me essential oils to stick up my nose - hell, I even asked my roommate to do Reiki on me despite the fact that I don't believe in Reiki one bit. Finally, when I was about to deduce that I had Mono and also a broken thyroid, an Ear, Nose & Throat specialist told me, rather coldly (why are some doctors so awful? I'll never understand...), that I had a tension headache and all I needed was a week's worth of muscle relaxers and everything would be fine.

At first I was all, oh Mean Doctor, you're so totally wrong. I'm not even that stressed out. I'll try this prescription because honestly, who doesn't want free narcotics?, but as soon as this fails, I'm going to march back into your office and proudly state that despite the numerous diplomas on the wall, you are not, in fact, a genius....

But then, two days and four muscle relaxers later, I realized she kind of was a genius. An awful, mean genius.

I was, and maybe still am, more stressed out than I realized. Looking back, I'm starting to understand that for the last 10 months, I've been swimming upstream with sharks, and that shit isn't so easy to navigate. And now that I've come up for air, I've landed here: a vague state of confusion with a prescription bottle of relaxation and complete and utter artistic burnout.

Burnt to a crisp. That's the only way to express the way I'm feeling. A life too full of work, too full of other people's burdens, too full of trying to get the screenplay equation just right so someone in Hollywood will actually read past the title page - I'm sick of it. Right now, screenwriting represents everything wrong with my life: it's too rigid, too thankless, too full of someone else's rules and it always cuts me off before I say what's really important.

This last script was my best one yet, I worked harder on it than I've ever worked on a piece of art, and still...rejection after rejection after "I didn't even stop to consider it" rejection. There are contests and a few Fellowships to wait on, but while I'm waiting, I really don't know if I can whip up another 120 page heartbreak. For now, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of how it makes me feel - mostly, like an untalented idiot who keeps banging her head against the wall.

My childhood boyfriend has his doctorate and is saving the world every single day.

And I'm...writing scripts?

Maybe it's not a good idea to Google people you used to date after you've had two glasses of wine, but what's a girl to do when she starts to think the pursuit she's dedicated her life to is mostly selfish? And even if her drive comes from the desire to connect, to reassure people we're all in this together, are these things still noble if no one hears them?

What am I really trying to say?

My body flipped out for 5 months because I wasn't asking that question - not in a deep, serious way. Maybe I wasn't able to then, but now that I am...I'm staring at a blank page and massaging my neck and wondering just what the hell I'm here to do.

...Besides eat cake, that is.

This Is, After All, What I Do

2011-05-02T20:39:00.000-06:00

“Write without pay until somebody offers to pay”

~ Mark Twain

I spent last Saturday night crying.

Of course.

I was on the phone with my mom, sobbing about being a writer. This always happens when I try to apply for fellowships - I break down and decide I hate the lifestyle and that no one understands how hard it is and that it's so subjective it's worthless. This breakdown usually occurs when I'm forced to distill my passion into 500 words. I find that sort of thing impossible.

Somehow, with my parents' insistence, I finished applying for two fellowships this week. I had to be spoon-fed encouragement like a starving street urchin from a Dickens novel, but I did it. Now there's contests to enter and contacts to email. It can be exhausting - espescially when I stop to consider the sheer amount of competition out there - but since I have yet to find a button on my keyboard that says "Instant Fame," this is all I got to work with.

The newest screenplay is a Big Concept / Indie hybrid. A supernatural dramady. It seems I'm unable to stick to one genre.

In case you're interested in finding out how weird I really am, the first 5 pages of the script* are below. Be warned: the way it looks on the blog isn't exact screenplay format. Also, there may be some blood or tears or sweat dripping from the words. I apologize for the mess.

FADE IN.

INT. GROCERY STORE. DAY - FAITH, NORTH CAROLINA

A squeaky cart rolls down the cereal aisle of a small town store.

The cart belongs to NANCY BENDER, mid 30’s, pretty yet constantly disheveled by life.

Nancy stops to ponder the sugary cereal selections.

An OLDER WOMAN, plump and in her late 50’s, stands next to Nancy. The Older Woman grabs two boxes of unhealthy cereal.

OLDER WOMAN

(to Nancy)

If we’re not supposed to eat it, why do they make it so damn addicting?

Nancy shares a smile with the Woman, who walks off.

When Nancy turns back to the cereal, a young girl, around 10 years old and wearing a baseball cap, is standing next to her cart. This is LISA.

LISA

She’s gonna die tonight. Heart attack.

Nancy forces her eyes to stay on the cereal.

NANCY

She’ll be fine.

LISA

Nancy, I could land a 747 on her ass. Anyway, her Uncle told me so.

NANCY

I’m buying cereal, Lisa. That’s all I’m doing.

LISA

You should tell her to stop by a hospital on her way home.

NANCY

No.

LISA

She’s gonna die all alone watching a Dr. Oz episode about obesity...

NANCY

It’s not my responsibility...

LISA

No one’s gonna find her for like 3 days -

NANCY

Stop it!

An OLD MAN in the same aisle stares at Nancy - who looks as though she’s talking to no one.

In fact, Nancy is the only one who can see Lisa.

LISA

Look, I don’t give a shit if the fat lady dies. You’re the one who

always wants to do good.

Frustrated, Nancy throws a box of raisin bran in her cart. She starts to push it down the aisle, following
the path of the Older Woman.

NANCY

You really need to take a day off.

LISA

The dead don’t get days off. Besides, it’s fun putting you in awkward situations.

Nancy has rolled her cart to the dairy section. The Older Woman is surveying the butter.

NANCY

Alright. What’s her Uncle’s name?

LISA

Eugene. Died of lung cancer. Owned a gas station in Rockwell

and had a camera installed in the bathroom so he could watch people pee.

NANCY

I think I’ll omit that part.

Nancy rolls her cart next to the Older Woman. They both survey the butter for an awkwardly long time.
Finally, the Older Woman looks over at Nancy.

OLDER WOMAN

Hello again.

NANCY

Hello.

Lisa is suddenly standing behind the Older Woman, pointing to her large ass and making faces.

The Older Woman notices Nancy’s wandering gaze, but of course doesn’t see Lisa.

OLDER WOMAN

Can I help you?

Nancy sighs.

NANCY

You had an uncle Eugene, right? Who died of lung cancer?

The Woman is taken back.

OLDER WOMAN

How did you...?

NANCY

He...Eugene wants me to tell you...you should really stop at the hospital tonight and get

checked out. There’s something wrong with your heart.

Lisa is now standing in the Older Woman’s cart, dancing.

The Older Woman continues to stare at Nancy.

OLDER WOMAN

Who are you?

NANCY

I’m...my name is Nancy Bender but we don’t know each other. I’m...I

can speak to people who have passed.

OLDER WOMAN

Passed where?

NANCY

Passed on.

OLDER WOMAN

To where?

Lisa is standing next to Nancy.

LISA

She’s doesn’t get it.

NANCY

I know!

The Older Woman’s eyes widen even more at Nancy’s admonishment to no one.

OLDER WOMAN

I think I should...go.

She starts to back her cart up.

NANCY

I’m sorry - I know it’s strange but your uncle Eugene really wants

you to get your heart checked out!

The Older Woman starts wheeling her cart away, quickly.

NANCY (CONT’D)

Please! Don’t just go home and watch Dr. Oz!

A few PEOPLE are now staring at Nancy.

NANCY (CONT’D)

Eugene owned a gas station! He used to watch people pee! I’m telling the truth here!

The Older Woman is gone.

Nancy can feel people staring at her.

Lisa is standing on the back of Nancy’s cart.

LISA

That didn’t go so well.

NANCY

It never does.

Defeated, Nancy starts pushing her cart away, Lisa still riding on the back.

LISA

You should just say “I see dead people.”

NANCY

I should just say nothing at all and save us all the trouble.

INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT - PHILLIPS, ME

A streak of moonlight slides into the bedroom of an old Victorian house.

The bedroom belongs to 8-year-old NICHOLAS, who is currently wide awake, a blanket pulled to his chin.

NICHOLAS

Go away.

His closet door, slightly ajar, creaks open a little wider.

NICHOLAS (CONT’D)

I don’t like you.

The door creaks open even wider. Nicholas is petrified and can hardly speak.

NICHOLAS (CONT’D)

Go away...please...

The door creaks open wider - then slams shut.

The blankets around Nicholas suddenly go taunt, holding the boy down. He screams.

NICHOLAS (CONT’D)

Go AWAY!

EXT. HOT TUB. NIGHT - LOS ANGELES, CA.

The little boy’s screams melt into the squeals of delight from 5 MODELS, all drunkenly crowded into a hot tub around JAKE BENDER, mid 30’s, handsome in a cocky kind of way.

JAKE

Who’s next?

A BRUNETTE Model eagerly holds out her palm to Jake. He studies it.

JAKE (CONT’D)

You were born during a full moon, which means you like drinking

tequila. You also have a tattoo on your lower back.

BRUNETTE

Oh my god! I do!

[*This shit has been copywritten and WGA registered.]

Don't Sweat The Organic Raspberry Loose Leaf Tea

2011-04-27T16:00:00.002-06:00

I spilled juice on my computer yesterday - something that was bound to happen, given the way I eat and drink in front of my laptop like I was chained to it. Actually, it wasn't juice, it was organic lose leaf raspberry tea - but my computer didn't give a fuck. It broke anyway. Or rather, the keyboard broke. I'm now typing on a USB keyboard that is sitting on top of my laptop while the rather overwhelming Apple store in town orders me some new parts.

As soon as the keyboard stopped working due to drowning in organic tea, I proceeded to freak out. My computer can't break!! This is what I do!! All day!! I type on it at work and then freelance on it at night and then do my own writing later when I should be sleeping!! One of my bosses saw me semi-hyperventilating and slamming the y key repeatedly and let me leave an hour early to rush to the aforementioned overwhelming Apple store. As I sat on one of the stools, biting my cuticles and preparing myself for shitty news (because let's face it, whenever you bring your Mac in to be fixed, the news is never, ever good), I began to bemoan my situation in a major way. I mean, I don't have piles of cash just waiting to be thrown at computer keyboards! My life's work is on that thing - what if the hard drive crashes? Oh dear god I'm going to die. Bury me now because I'm going to die.

A few hours later, riding home with lame USB keyboard beside me and sighing because my new tattoo was going to have to wait a couple months, I happened to turn on the radio. The story centered on a town devastated by a recent tornado.

This is the part where I feel like a selfish dick.

You know how they say don't sweat the small stuff? Well, there's nothing like whining over $100 worth of computer damage and then listening to how someone lost everything, including the life of a family member, to an act of God, to put that into perspective.

When I went through rib surgery two years ago, I spent 8 weeks realizing just how small everything was compared to my health, and the health of those I loved. When you literally can't move your torso for fear of the worst stabbing pain you hope to never feel again shooting through your body, being single or not having a flat stomach or being without extra money for fabulous shoes doesn't matter one red cent. When I watched my Dad grieve the passing of a father he was never sure how to love, everything paled in comparison to seeing him smile again - I would have given up anything for it. When I heard my mom was in the hospital last year and for a few hours no one knew why, or when my lovable, fat black lab died, or when I heard that my best friend for twenty years lost her father to cancer...time stopped and really the only thing that had any meaning was breathing through the seconds.

It's not our fault that we routinely forget just how worthless most things are when compared to what honestly matters - we've got busy lives filled with deadlines and office drama and Facebook. And I don't say that maliciously; we really do have busy lives, but it's so vital to have wake up calls during it all. Small, non-damaging wake up calls to shake us out of our singular headspace and into the bigger picture.

We are so not alone.

No matter what our mind drama wants us to believe,

We're all in this together.

You, me, those you love, those I love -

We're tethered together until the day we stop breathing and let go.

And so the small stuff is important, but not so important

that I should forget just how fortunate I am to only have small stuff

to worry about.

Amidst The Storm, I'm Alive

2011-04-20T14:54:00.002-06:00

"The flower that follows the sun does so even in cloudy days”

~ Robert Leighton

There are times when I become so overwhelmed by life that I feel like a deer in the middle of a highway; stuck despite the oncoming traffic, able only to stare at what's racing toward me. I know it's useless to run - although maybe not so useless to cry - and my heart dips farther down into my chest with the knowledge that there is nothing to be done besides wait.

Life is just momentarily full of both too much and not enough. Too much work and not enough money. Too much responsibility and no one to step in and relieve me. An intense desire to love without a heart to give it to. The boredom of routine but not enough details in the plan to move on. A burning creative spark tempered by reality and rewrites. There's this deep, pulsating need to sob but I'm not sure what would be behind it. Maybe everything. Yoga is impossible these days without shedding a few tears. Thank god I sweat like a 700 pound man; water and salt just mixes with more water and salt.

The human body knows when it hasn't received adequate love; when there hasn't been enough nurturing touch, enough time to relax, ways to put the mind to sleep for a little bit. The human spirit also knows - we droop closer to the ground, have to try harder to put out our usual glow, occasionally make decisions that seem like what we need but are really just what we think we need (pretzels and ice cream for dinner, a credit card fueled shopping spree, that guy double fisting cheap beer and wearing an awful, awful newsboy cap), and forget to inhale the beautiful, dew-tipped knowledge that we are alive.

I'm doing my best to breathe.

To notice the little miracles that happen along my day's path.

To focus on the headlights speeding towards me and also on my happiness.

I'm trying.

And doing my best to forgive myself when my trying doesn't feel good enough.

And That's The Sound a Breakthrough Makes

2011-04-15T16:05:00.002-06:00

“Life can be found only in the present moment. The past is gone, the future is not yet here, and if we do not go back to ourselves in the present moment, we cannot be in touch with life.”

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

I don't use the word "breakthrough" often. On one hand, it's cliche as fuck, and on another hand, it's big. You don't want to throw big words around unless you mean them (which is why the current use of the word excited makes me want to tie concrete to its ankles and drop it over a bridge and never speak of it agan).

So when I say that I had a breakthrough this week, I'm not bullshitting you. It was one of those weird experiences where I was trying to work out a small, mundane problem and ending up crashing into a realization that made me stop everything I was doing and just sit there, eyes blinking, breath caught.

My past is riddled with decisions

made with the Fantasy Me in mind.

I've decided where to go to college, where to live, what job to take -

based on a future I want, but not necessarily a future that will be mine.

It's good to aim high. Nurture romantic notions. Keep the glass half full. Have faith. But it's just as important, when making crucial life decisions, to make sure that the decision will make the you you are in this moment just as happy as the you you'd like to be 6 months or a year in the future.

I tended to forget that the Me of the Moment

was the most important part of the equation.

I think my forgetfulness mostly had to do with a desire to be more than what I was (or what I am). When you're not comfortable in your own skin, with your own voice and your own potential and limitations, it's easy to decide things like, I'm going to pay a rent that's above my means because I don't have enough money to make me feel secure right now and I want that to change, or, I'm going to buy these totally unwieldy shoes for work because I think I'm too short and not sexy enough and they will surely make me taller and sexier, or I'm going to slightly starve myself because I see these women who have figures I want and the only way to get there is to stop eating.

See what I mean? I'd make these choices, over and over again, that seemed normal to other people, but were really based on the rich, famous, supermodel version of me. Which, as we all know (seeing as how Ryan Gosling isn't my fiance and I don't drink tea and read the New York Times in a bitchin West Village penthouse), is not exactly the reality I've been currently living in.

So now.
From now on.
I'm going to make decisions

that will make the Present Moment Me

happy.

I'm going to do my best

to love the Present Moment Me

understand where she's at and what she's capable of

And stay away from shoes that are only going to make me teeter over to the nearest railing and cry for help.

I'm Not That Bitch On The Food Chain of Love

2011-04-08T14:37:00.001-06:00

“He who purposely cheats his friend, would cheat his God”

~ Johann Kaspar Lavater

Back when I had a massive crush on a massively hot individual (let's be honest - the crush is still alive and kicking, even though I hardly the see the guy around anymore), I was trying to find out if he had a girlfriend. I was using all my womanly trickery, along with my frighteningly well developed stalking skills, but was foiled at every turn. The only other thing I could have tried was walking right up to him and asking, but since that would make me insane, I didn't do it.

As I described my heart palpating puppy love to anyone who would listen (hoping that air particles carrying my words would settle into his brain and alert him to the fact that I thought he was a total fox), I would frequently throw in the whole "but I'm not sure if he has a girlfriend so I don't know how forward to be..." and would usually get the same response from other girls, "who cares if he has a girlfriend? Go for it anyway."

Sure, we were talking about a hypothetical situation in which a hypothetical me would actually have the hypothetical balls to open my bedroom door and usher some dude inside, regardless if he was attached, but that whole "who cares if he has a girlfriend?!" statement continued to bother me long after the conversation ended. In fact, that sentiment has always bothered me.

Since when did my happiness become more important than someone else's?

I mean, if two people fall in love and one of them is dating someone else, then sure, that first relationship will probably end. And probably it should. But when did it become cool to try and sabotage something that isn't broken for the sake of our own desire?

It's kind of impossible to not instinctively think "fuck I wish that guy would break up with is girlfriend because I can tell just by looking at him that we will get married," but thinking something and acting on those thoughts are two different things. Thinking it, in my opinion, is innocently childish. Acting on it is inherently selfish.

I'm not trying to go all holier-than-thou up in your grill, and plenty of good people have intentionally sabotaged relationships for their benefit, but I just can't see myself ever doing it. Maybe it's because I still remember the pain of my heart being sawed in half by (what I saw as) complete betrayal, and will probably never be able to forget it, that stops me from just not caring if he has a girlfriend or not. Maybe I'm just afraid of the massive dose of Karma that would surely come my way. Or maybe I just don't see the point in taking something by force. Whatever the reason, I'm not going to be the girl that steals your boyfriend, no matter how perfect he seems to be for me. If he comes willingly, that's its own story. But if he's perplexed, or resisting, never. I don't like absolutes, but I can tell you here and now: never.

When it comes to love

and relationships,

like my men strong, able and willing

- (as well as possibly having been a stripper in another life and still remembering the moves) -

and won't ever settle for less.

Food and Death and Happiness In Between

2011-03-31T11:44:00.001-06:00

“The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook”

~Julia Child

Food. Weight.

This has been one of my struggles for a very long time.

It's no longer consuming, no longer something that bites and scratches at my days, but it's still there. Waiting by my mirror. Perched on my refrigerator. Running along beside me each time my sneakered foot hits the sidewalk or the treadmill. I have a feeling it will never truly leave - it latched itself too deeply inside years ago - and so I spend time each day doing what I can to tame it, pet it into an idle sleep, and then learn to laugh at what it looks like.

Seeing me now, it might not even make sense. I wear a size four. I spend more than an hour at the gym 6 times a week. I even occasionally wear spandex to yoga. But there are things you can't see that I can. Things I've been seeing all my life, since a childhood medication cruelly packed on pounds without my consent. Things that made it almost impossible for me to eat for a year, from thirteen to fourteen, things that made me crazy and my parents cry.

Every day, I learn to love my body a little more. With every push-up I finish, every meal I lovingly prepare, every bite I ask myself to chew slowly, I learn that this body is everything I could have asked for - no matter the scars or the cellulite. And when I struggle, when I sense a familiar presence jabbing my stomach or comparing me to a naturally thin woman who has legs up to my head -- I hold my breathe for a couple of seconds, I exhale, and I patiently explain to my soul that this body is all I've got. So we better cherish it.

Because death isn't going to wait.

There's no out running it.

Why waste each blessed day feeling ugly? Why allow someone else to decide if I'm sexy? Why not love every dimple and muscle and slightly pigeon-toed foot? Why not? For one moment, just ask, why not?

Sometimes I cry,

I lie on my bed and I cry for the little girl who felt so miserable in her own skin,

who never deserved the looks or the comments,

I cry for her because she still hasn't quite learned

that she is beautiful

and vibrant

and full of life.

I'm ready for this struggle to go to sleep for good.

And if it never completely closes it's eyes,

I can spend the rest of my days learning how to love it until it does.

My increasing - not preoccupation, that sounds really morbid - interest, in death and what it means for life has opened my eyes to the thinness of certain worries. My 16ish year obsession around what I look like compared to others has begun to reveal itself to be flimsy, pointless, and most importantly - wasteful. I take care of myself to the best of my ability. Health is my number one priority. I was not born to be a tall, skinny woman. I just wasn't. Lame, homicidal-rage inducing diets or self-hatred won't change that. Period. End of sentence. Truth.

Will you do this with me?
Just for a second, an hour, a day...love every inch of yourself?

And I don't mean in a stupid, OMG we're all beautiful let's go eat celery!!! kind of way.

In a collected, understanding kind of way.

An understanding that once you reach a place of spiritual and physical health -

that's it.

There is no going beyond that. There is no Barbie or Ken transformation.

Like death, there's no getting around the fact that you are never going to be anything other than you.

Can you love that truth?

Or at least...practice it?

I'll feel less weird if you say yes.

Fuck It, I'm On A Spiritual Journey

2011-03-28T12:46:00.003-06:00

Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."
Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have met the soul walking upon my path."

~ Khalil Gibran

It's become increasingly clear

that my life is not about what it used to be.

Maybe it's a shift that happens to everyone. Or maybe it's just reserved to for obsession-prone writers who spend 75% of their time inside their head. But over the last two years certain worries, certain thoughts, beliefs and desires have melted - and others have sprung up out of the muck. These others have freaked me the fuck out, because they've required my entire mind/spirit/soul to open up and let it all in. Little bursts (if it all came in at once I'm pretty sure I'd just slam into a wall and go unconscious) of clarity have kicked their way inside since I moved out of New York City, and even though I miss that place all the time, I almost don't even recognize the girl who used to live there.

And so, sure, I'm on this trip,

but I think I've waited this long to admit it, really admit it,

because "Spiritual Journeys" have always pissed me off.

It's like - well, what does that even mean? You're on a "spiritual quest"? Great. Send me a postcard and keep your gurus and tofu and trance dancing to yourself. And does this mean we can't drink together anymore? Do I have to talk about vibrators with someone else? Should I refrain from saying motherfucking bullshit around you when I slam a cabinet door on my fingers?

"Spiritual Journeys" have always set my teeth on edge - because the people I have experienced who are "on" them have always made it seem so linear. Like climbing a never-ending series of steps, each level turning them into a bigger spiritual egoist, the end result being some gold chair in Nirvana that only they get to sit in.

So I hesitate to talk about my transition out loud

because I will never stop

swearing

loving sex

listening to pop music

dying my hair

tattooing my body

buying too many shoes

falling out of yoga poses

sucking at parallel parking

etc.

My Spiritual Journey is changing me, but I'm not changing myself for it. I refuse to wear it like a badge. Or talk about it at parties. Because in truth, I don't know the rules or the end result. It's bigger than my stupid ego or my ability to express it. It's always changing. It has no form or path. It just is. That's all I know.

Well, that and the fact that it has not yet taught me how to stop wishing

I could set my boss's office on fire.

Um...You May Have Noticed a Change

2011-03-27T15:12:00.002-06:00

So everything's different.

This is on purpose.

Hope you like it.

PS: The girls at caffeinated designs are lovely.

When The World Shifts - Is It Supposed To Be Like This?

2011-03-22T14:18:00.003-06:00

“Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

I wonder if Fate really exists.

if all things happen

the way

they should.

When I tell a roommate I've really been on an vintage Ben Harper kick, and want to hear the old album a highschool boyfriend introduced me to, and then a few days later I walk into a coffee shop and that album is playing - is that fate? What about when I ask the Universe for something over and over again, but get no answer? Is that fate? Or just the absence of it?

I've finally finished my latest script.

I've been fighting back against an old illness.

I've been cooking with wild abandon and only occasionally grossing myself out.
I've finally found peace in being alone.

I've started eating a teaspoon of chia seeds every day.

I still do yoga, despite the idiots.

I wore sandals today for the first time since last summer - even though it was only 55 degrees.

My life has settled into a quiet observation period. A time when I measure forward motion in small steps and restful nights. There isn't "much" happening. It's a weird - if not soft - place to be. Probably just another part of this huge seismic spiritual shift (pardon the hippie language) that's been happening for about two months.

Maybe this is how it's all supposed to go down.

I'll let you know

when I figure it the fuck out.

Douchebags Doing Downward Dog

2011-03-16T16:20:00.001-06:00

"Yoga is the perfect opportunity to be curious about who you are"

~Jason Crandell

So as I've been trying to refind myself

and shit

I've been doing more yoga.

I used to hate yoga, so the fact that I now pay for the honor of doing it twice a week is a pretty big deal. And an even bigger deal is the fact that I can remain composed when some of my fellow yoga patrons walk into the room.

My punishment of choice is hot yoga, so it makes sense that most people who walk into class aren't wearing much. I mean, it gets nasty hot in there. What do I mean by that? So hot the sweat is blinding you, burning your eyes, and if the person next to you ate garlic the night before or has a touch of BO, you are smelling it so intensely that you may need to crawl into child's pose just to stop yourself from seeing spots and then immediately fainting.

So it's hot. But that still does not explain the outfits some people chose. Some people being women. Because the men in the class just wear shorts and call it a day. But these chicks, they walk into class wearing tiny tight shorts and sports bras, and I'm supposed to just believe that's the most comfortable outfit they could find? I'm supposed to believe that's the outfit that's going to get them closest to Nirvana?

Also - who needs to "warm up" before class -- which is hard enough to make my pretty in shape person shake uncontrollably in certain poses -- by swinging themselves around like a chimp and doing headstands? This is not warming up. This is being annoying. This is being that kid in high school who wears sleeveless shirts every day because he says he's always hot but really he just wants to show off his childlike guns that he's starting to develop because he got onto the Varsity basketball team.

Every time I see these people I'm reminded why I stayed away for so long. It's not the actual practice that can irk me. It's the idiots who sometimes frequent yoga class. It's the boring Yawnyawns who go all spiritual and heady when they talk about it, or the weird, cliquish fashionistas who only show up in groups, their tight pants and newly bought yoga mats taking up the entire front row - making it impossible for anyone else to possibly see their own reflection.

I found my yoga mat in our basement.

It was free.

This all probably sounds a little claws-out, which isn't very spiritual, obviously, but there seems to be this thought process out there that being a yoga practitioner makes you a better person. It does not. Possibly, it makes you a healthier person. But don't be fooled.

There are douchebags everywhere.

Disclaimer: Dialogue in Memoir May Sound More Literary Than it Actually Was

2011-03-10T16:55:00.001-07:00

“First comes thought; then organization of that thought, into ideas and plans; then transformation of those plans into reality. The beginning, as you will observe, is in your imagination”

~ Napoleon Hill

"I can't help but think...I need to do something. But I don't know what it is. I know what it used to be. But not what it is now."

"What did it used to be?"

"Drinking, sometimes drugs, sex with a random guy - or at least someone who annoyed me enough to wish they were random."

I wiped the corners of my eyes, because I was crying, even though I wasn't talking about anything particularly sad. I always cry in her office.

"But I can't really do that anymore - at least not the way I used to. And I really can't have sex with random people." I wiped my eyes again. Her office must do a Pavlov thing to me. Talking about deep emotional wounds? Cry. Talk about sex? Cry. "I made a promise to myself. Ultimately, it doesn't contribute to a healthy life for me."

"So what is this something...this something that you used to find with those experiences...what is it now?"

"I have no idea. And I can't explain it. Every time I try it's like I'm speaking a language I never learned." I dab my eyes with a tissue that's been clenched in my left hand, worrying that I'm going to look pretty haggard when I walk into work later. Were you crying before you came in?

"Then maybe that's what next. The journey to find to find that freedom...the ecstasy on your own. Without those tools. Maybe that's what your body has been getting ready for?"

Part of me wants to chuckle and say something about the difference between the ecstasy of sex and the ecstasy of finally holding Tree Pose in yoga or meditating until I fall asleep. But I don't say anything, I don't even chuckle, because she kind of reminds me of a lady Buddha and I don't want to offend a lady Buddha.

"Maybe. I guess. It's just the weirdest feeling...to be aware that your entire self is shifting into another gear, is shedding some type of skin...but your conscious mind isn't in charge." I stare up at her butterfly mobile and instantly realize why babies like to look at shapes attached to wires lazily above their cribs; it's soothing as hell. "For so much of my twenties my identity was about survival. Survival of a broken heart, of a broken life compass...that's where my attention was. Up until a few months ago. I've been surviving my entire life but now I think there's more to it. I just don't know what it is."

"You will."

My eyes were closed but I could hear her smile through her words. Her confidence made me feel like maybe she was right. I ran my finger under my lashes one more time, grateful that I had worn waterproof mascara, and then took a breath.

If the lady Buddha thought I'd find the answers, maybe I would.

Never Enough and Always Too Much (Britney Spears Got Me Thinking Deep Thoughts)

2011-03-03T10:55:00.000-07:00

“Life can be found only in the present moment. The past is gone, the future is not yet here, and if we do not go back to ourselves in the present moment, we cannot be in touch with life”

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

I was on the treadmill the other day, a broken one without a working TV (my local YMCA is so ghetto...everything is always broken), which forced me to listen to my old ass "workout mix" on my even older iPod, when suddenly, right in the middle of a Britney Spears song (don't judge), I had this really weird zen epiphany.

There is simultaneously too much

and not enough

time.

[How this thought happened during a pop song about a threesome, we will never know]

The future has been on my mind since I was born - I came out three months early and haven't looked back since. For whatever reason, I've always been waiting for tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll have money. Tomorrow I'll be recognized for my talent. Tomorrow I'll be famous. Tomorrow I'll be married to Joseph Gordon Levitt. Tomorrow I'll be happy and things will be great. For whatever reason, my fetus self decided to come into existence before my patience could be fully formed.

But also - the idea of death, of losing those I love to the rabbit hole of forever gone, losing myself to it, has been in the back of my mind since I can remember. I've always been keenly aware of it and I don't think I'll ever be ready. For as much as I want to plow forward through life, I never want to get to the end.

So maybe this is why

they say the Present Moment is all we have.

To be honest, the happiest I am is when I'm just here. Just living in the breath of right now.

The last couple weeks of slight emotional hell are finally beginning to yield just the tiniest bud of realization...my choke hold on the vague and unformed future has to loosen. When it comes down to it, it doesn't matter how much I want a strong, happy man to enfold me in his arms or for Hollywood to throw open it's doors - these things will happen regardless, and in spite of, my own personal ticking clock.

In this in between time I've started to cook again. An unconscious desire to nourish my body with pure, simple foods got me to relinquish the sandwiches and spoonful of peanut butter dinners I've been eating for the last 6 months. I've loosened up my 6 day a week gym insanity and gone to back replacing two days a week with hot yoga - a fucking difficult lesson in just breathing through the sweat, pain, and more sweat (it's like I jumped into a pool by the end. Horrifying). Even my office job, the one thing that can drive my insane in .456 seconds, has started to become more tolerable when I just take it one. task. at a time.

I hope

with all my might,

that this peaceful rebirth into the present

stays around for a while.

Cracking Up So Some Light Can Get In

2011-02-25T15:06:00.008-07:00

“The great thing is, if one can, to stop regarding all the unpleasant things as interruptions in one's "own" or "real" life. The truth is, of course, that what one regards as interruptions are precisely one's life”

~ Lewis Carol

They say that whales beach themselves before natural disasters.

No one can prove this theory yet, but it happened again, just 72 hours before that earthquake in New Zealand. One hundred and seven pilot whales just up and swam until they hit the sands.

I think my body is doing the same thing. My internal plate tectonics are beginning to shift, and as a result my emotions are throwing themselves up along the shore of my face; making me unable to hide the simple fact that something is going on.

"Are you okay? You look tired."

"What's up? You doing alright?"

"You're good? Are you sure?"

Like random people on the beach who just happen to discover a pod of dead whales while carrying their sunscreen and big floppy hats, at first, I wasn't sure what the hell was happening. I felt miserable for no real reason. I couldn't eat anything without my stomach revolting. My dreams were vivid enough to cause me to wake up exhausted. And the worst thing was, I couldn't put into words what was happening. Not really. I couldn't explain it. And I'm very good at explaining things.

And then, one night, I just fucking cried my fucking eyes out. Crying is hard for me, but sobbing is even harder. For lots of reasons, my body decided long ago that any giant expression of emotion just isn't something we do here. Especially around other people. God forbid I lost it in front of a roommate (which is exactly what happened). God forbid I let someone else see me for the scared, anxious, childish girl I can still be.

All this stuff came tumbling out. All this real, truthful, embarrassing shit. I felt so exposed. It was awful. But I couldn't stop. The words kept spilling out until I was certain one of us in that tiny, dark room was going to drown.

Time passed, a few days where I mostly just walked around, blinking, doing my work and trying to understand all the stuff I had just said out loud. And now I'm here. Maybe not fully sure of what happened, or what's going to happen, but pretty confident that something is beginning to move.

The Jersey Shore Isn't A Good Enough Sign, God

2011-02-20T18:23:00.003-07:00

“The word 'happiness' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness”

~ Carl Jung

Sometimes, life hands us a lemon.

And it says, I don't know. You figure out what to do with this lemon.

That's where I'm at. Trying to figure out what to do with the way I feel. Trying to understand this disjointed, uninspired, I'm-Pretty-Sure-Life-Is-Random feeling that's following me around like one of those sad, black, cartoonish clouds.

The other night I was talking to my roommate, imploring the Universe to give me a sign! "I need something," I said to her, unwrapping a third piece of gum and putting it in my mouth - because what else do you do when you're bored? "Like a burning bush?" she asked. "Yes. I need someone to tell me something!"

And then - immediately - The Jersey Shore, which I had been watching on Hulu but had paused for a good 45 minutes, started playing at full volume on my computer.

I guess, if I was going to have guardian angels,

the most fitting way for us to communicate,

would be through trashy reality TV.

Is There Someone Up There Or Am I Just Talking To My Ceiling?

2011-02-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

Like Yoga, the spiritual life is actually very difficult

~Sting

I'm not posting today to talk about love

(for once).

At least not the human kind.

This Valentine's Day, I'm trying to fix a relationship. A relationship with my spiritual center. I know. What? It's weird. It sounds weird but it's true. A few weeks ago things just got...unfulfilling. We had been doing so well, too. For a while I felt so close to it, so nurtured, so loved. And then? I don't know. Shit just fell apart.

It's hard to really put into words what I'm struggling with. I think mostly, I just feel stuck. Nothing is really going forward - or at least, not in a way that I can see at this point. The light at the end of the tunnel is dim and flickering - sometimes I'm not even sure it's there.

I'm just...not connected. I don't feel taken care of. Watched over. Life feels pretty fucking random these days and that sucks for someone who relies on a little bit of magic, a little bit of fate, to get her through the days and weeks and months and years.

There's a drought going on and I'm not sure how to get it to rain again.

They say you should be able to find all the love and happiness you need in yourself, without any help from the outside, but I just don't know I buy it. Especially not now, at a time when I am literally doing all I can to transform my life into the intangible dreams I've had ever since I was a kid.

I'm trying to reconnect, find the passion, the romance of it all, again. But good lord.

Give me something to work with here.

Excuse Me While I PIck These Shards Of Glass Out Of My Hair

2011-02-07T14:21:00.001-07:00

Women are the only exploited group in history to have been idealized into powerlessness.
~Erica Jong

I hate being vague. But this post unfortunately requires it.

...Interested now, aren't you?

This weekend was weird. I'm-In-A-Movie weird. WTF weird. I traveled somewhere to meet a big, big Someone in the world of Hollywood. Someone who could literally snap their fingers and change my life, who could turn my struggling writer status into millionaire status (he's done it for other people), who could move cinematic mountains.

Traveling to meet him, I tried to contain any and all big hopes - once you've been burned, you attempt to limit your belief in overnight success. But still. Didn't him wanting to meet me in the first place mean he liked my stuff enough to want to do something with it? To at least help me? There were moments when, I admit, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this meeting was going to be huge.

Again, keeping the details to a minimum (you never know who's out there...cruising the web and randomly reading), the whole night was surreal. The opulence, the trendiness, the conversations about insider things...I watched my words and I kept trying to sit up straight, doing my best impression of someone who could be important enough to have dinner with the person I was having dinner with.

But as the night wore on, I began to notice something.

At first, just a small nibble of a personal big fear...a little mosquito bite of uh oh. It wasn't until the clock struck a slightly ungodly hour that I began to realize I couldn't deny things any longer: this guy, who I desperately wanted to see me as an artist, to respect me as a writer, was showing all the signs of deciding I was cute.

Let's be clear, there was no creepy vibes going on, and I never felt pressured or nervous, but little things here and there, no matter how hard I tried to steer the conversation in a professional way, started to make my shoulders sag.

Look, I'm glad people don't think I'm hideous.
And it's not like I'm not flattered.
But if I was a guy, I wouldn't have to worry about this bullshit.

Even though I was really grateful to this dude for taking the time out of his insane life to meet with me, I felt a little miserable after the whole thing was over, after I spent hours doing all I could to deflect any and all advances, hours keeping my guard up, hours wondering if he really thought I was talented at all.

I want to believe that he really does think I'm talented. And maybe the red hair and good fashion sense is just an extra bonus. I want to believe that he'll read my next script and really like it and if he has time, help me the way he said he would. Maybe I'm just over-exaggerating a really common Hollywood thing: business and pleasure are often mixed. Maybe he won't even remember the way things went down.

But I will.

I'll remember the feeling of sitting across the table from someone who was obviously up for something, and feeling in my gut that my whole life could change in a matter of a few simple choices. But I couldn't do it. That's not integrity - that's building another layer to a motherfucking glass ceiling that likes to fall on my head every once in a while.

I don't want to sound ungrateful for the experience. I am supremely grateful. And I don't want it to sound like the guy was some sort of sleeze. Not at all. Not even close. And maybe I gave him the wrong impression. I tried my hardest not to but it's possible. It was just the reality of the whole thing, a reminder of what may await. That stupid thing that women have to worry about.

My fingers are crossed that when he reads this finished script, my talent will be the only thing that matters.

Cleaning House Involves Crying and Condoms

2011-01-31T22:19:00.001-07:00

“Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.”

~ Bill Cosby

Obviously, I'm not cool enough to own headphones made by Dr. Dre. But it was really fucking hard to figure out where the batteries went and Google usually knows everything, so...

Last weekend was kind of rough. I was doing a lot of thinking and a lot of sitting with pain. Have you ever done that? Just given up the fight and sat with what hurts? It's kind of like someone's nailing your heart over and over with a mallet. But it's the only way out.

I feel better now. At least when it comes to what was aching.

At the end of the weekend all 5 of my roommates decided to go on a major cleaning rampage. So someone cleaned out the kitchen cabinets and found a fuckload of condoms. Every type of condom a girl could want. I checked expiration dates and then took a few of the best ones, including an extra large one -- for manifestation purposes, you understand.

Sweeping away the old to make way for the new, no matter how painful, is one of the most essential things I can do for me right now.

Sometimes, Friday nights alone, crying in bed are involved.

Sometimes, condoms.

And still other times, 15 minutes trying to figure out where the fucking opening for the batteries is.

I Don't Stalk. I'm Just Very Diligent In My Research.

2011-01-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

“For myself I am an optimist - it does not seem to be much use being anything else”

~ Winston Churchill

Last night, in a fit of high school bravery, I decided to Facebook "friend" Dreamy Office Guy. Does he have a girlfriend? Is he a Republican? Should I just stop my crush right here?

At first I was all nervous. Because what if he thought I was weird for "friending" him when we haven't talked that often in the first place? But then, I went to yoga, allowed sweat to pour down my face for an hour and realized it didn't fucking matter what he thought because I'm 27 fucking years old - not 12.

So this morning I saw that we are now "friends."

And what did his profile reveal, besides pictures that prove my assessment of him as being possible dreamman material to be true? Not a whole lot. But it does seem that less than a month ago, he had a girlfriend.

So what now?

I think maybe, all that I can do, is decide that if he is with someone, I just have to smile and wish her well because she basically hit the mega millions (with the cutest lopsided smile known to humanity). Some of my friends tried to throw the whole "well, girlfriends don't always last" consolation my way but honestly, who wants to wish a break-up on someone? I just can't do it. Break-ups blow. I should know.

So now I just continue living. I don't go out and buy a tub of frosting or get all sad because really, I didn't even know him.

The older I get, the more I realize unrequited anything is hardly worth my time.

I'll go for a run. I'll promise myself that there really is someone out there who's going to meet me in the most natural way. Who's going to make it so I can finally relax. Who's going to enjoy the fact that I occasionally drink so much coffee in the afternoon that I scream-sing on my drove home.

Does it get tiring being positive? Absofuckinglutely. But I refuse to go the other way. I've been there. It sucks. It's self-absorbed and takes too much time. We've gotta believe. That we're lovable. That we're amazing. That someone's gonna see it and drop their groceries at their feet and never want to leave our side.

...But if he does happen to be single...well then.

That's a whole other story.

My Emotional Memory Is Like A Goldfish

2011-01-18T12:15:00.001-07:00

“Part of being a winner is knowing when enough is enough. Sometimes you have to give up the fight and walk away, and move on to something that's more productive.”

~ Donald Trump

I had such a weird weekend.

And it's got me wondering what walking away really means.

First, an interaction with the ex which will now serve as a daily reminder why I need to stop pretending that we orbit in the same universe, and second, an awkward interaction with a coworker which makes me kiss the ground in thanks that I stayed far, far away from him - even when my loneliness had me considering otherwise.

While I can pat myself on the back for finally realizing that those gut intuitions I have when I first meet someone will most likely come to fruition (so just give it time and don't jump into anything you'll regret later because believe me, you will regret it later), I still have the hardest time in the world walking away from someone. Especially someone I cared about.

I can now squash something potentially annoying before it starts, but how do I end - truly end - a relationship once it's happened?

Sure, I can stop dating someone and understand intellectually why I stopped dating them, but my...I don't know...my soul...can't seem to bring itself to be done with that person. To stop caring about that person. To stop wondering how they are. So I give them chance after chance after chance to jump around and break things in the china shop of my life. And it's the same thing with friendships that suck. If the person keeps knocking on my door, I just have to let them in.

How do you truly walk away - and keep your heart open?

I Mean Hey, I'm Having A Moment

2011-01-03T20:56:00.002-07:00

“No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can do with a single thread”

~ Robert Burton

I'm not saying I'm freaking out,

but I am. Just a little.

Two of my friends got engaged over the holiday interlude. This means that almost my entire group of close girlfriends from college are now either married or engaged. Even the girl who swore off guys all together and dated chicks for two years. Yeah. She got married before me. To a dude.

I don't want to become a stereotype. So I won't. I won't eat the box of cookies sitting on top of my fridge in a fit of feeling sorry for myself. I won't get all mean to my self-esteem. I won't make a playlist of indie sadness and lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling while simultaneously going through all the guys I could maybe date if I just closed my eyes or lowered my standards. I've done this all before. It's pretty lame.

But I will be honest and say...aw geeze.

I feel just the tiniest bit lonely.

That word isn't common in my vocabulary these days, but I have not yet reached that high plane of spirituality where the news that two more friends are entering coupledom doesn't kind of make me feel little stabs of panic.

Also - I had a psychic point blank tell me I wouldn't meet anyone for a year.

Talk about a day-ruiner.

[Although this particular woman has been totally wrong about big things before. So I just nodded while my head was all bitch, you don't know me!]

I won't lose my natural ability to believe that things can change in an instant, or my hope, I will say that even the strongest woman has her moments. And this, friends, is one of those moments.

Let's Manifest It Together

2010-12-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

“Everyone sees the unseen in proportion to the clarity of his heart, and that depends upon how much he has polished it. Whoever has polished it more sees more - more unseen forms become manifest to him.”

~ Rumi

What's the best way to say goodbye to 2010?

It's a hard question. 2010 was not easy. It even started hard, with a family member calling me on New Year's Eve last year, drunk and sobbing and just unloading for 2 awful hours. I barely had the energy to watch the ball drop on TV. And it didn't get much easier from there.

In a way, 2010 was the year that shook me completely and utterly out of immaturity. 2010 was the year that taught me to wake up and see reality for what it is, that settling for less in a relationship is the worst thing you can do for your heart, just how fickle Hollywood can be, and just how uncertain the ground is on the way to success. Most of all, 2010 said: figure out how to be happy on your own.

There's no need to list all the ways I was hurt, disappointed, confused or rendered completely exhausted by 2010. Needless to say, it took all my energy to come out the other end still believing in the possibility of magic. Of abundance and karma. Of pure joy and happiness. Of achieving dreams and finding love. On the eve of December 31st, 2010...I still refuse to give up on any of those things.

Part of me is still a little beaten down from the last 365 days.

Mostly, my heart is still beaten down.

But ultimately, I'm okay.

Because 2010 also taught me to recognize my own emotional power.

If I could wish for an ideal 2011, I'd like certain things from 2010 to be reversed. Instead of exhausting myself in a relationship that took, took, took - I'd like to be rejuvenated by a romantic love that's not only returned, but gives, gives, gives. Instead of someone making me jump through hoops to produce a product they don't end up buying anyway, I'd like someone to work with me to create something they're all too happy to purchase.

I'd also like my meditation + spiritual practice to continue to blossom - but no longer because it's what I have to cling to in order to stay balanced - because of the blessings in my life.

I want to laugh at lot. I want to rediscover my zen appreciation for cooking. I want to expand my social circle. I want to taste excitement, not just smile in the remembrance of the flavor. I want to continue my new healthy state of being. I want to stop being so paranoid around horoscopes. I want to rediscover what good sex is. What a hefty bank account looks like. What artistic happiness can produce.

So there. I've said goodbye to 2010 simply by looking ahead.

What will 2011 bring you?

Death is a Bully - And I Want HIm To Stop Stepping on My Glasses

2010-12-28T14:54:00.001-07:00

“I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter.”

~ Winston Churchill

So there was a huge snowstorm on the East Coast -

And people panicked and newscasters stood out in the blizzard with rulers and my dad forced my brother to go out and get another pack of Coke Zeros should we run out during the wind and snow and my plane got canceled three times and so I'm here until Thursday.

At first I was pissed. As grounded and calm as I like to think I am, changes in plans really set my teeth on edge. It's the Type A part of me that I haven't been able to let go - no matter how many hours I sit on a meditation pillow or deep breaths I inhale, you cannot change plans on me last minute. I will freak out on you. I'll pace around the room and then inhale 3 cookies and then yell and spit cookie bits at the phone while a Southwest lady tells me there aren't any planes until Thursday. I never yell. Unless you go and change the goddamn plans.

Anyway, I've been at home longer than I planned.

In hindsight, this has been a good thing. I've actually slept in. Taken a few days off from the gym. Allowed processed sugar back into my life. Watched some cable. In other words: I've chilled the fuck out.

I've also seen old friends - and old acquaintances - due to the untimely and completely unfair passing of an amazing man I knew my entire life. His daughter and I grew up together and still remain close to this day. His death crumpled an entire town; everyone loved him. There wasn't a mean bone in his body and he did not go quietly into the night. He fought for every breath because he loved his family that much.

And I discovered, while going to a wake I wasn't planning on attending and seeing old friends I wasn't counting on seeing, that I am still fucking terrified of death.

2011 is just about here, something I'm oh so thankful for (blow me, 2010), but how often have I simply shut out today in hopes for tomorrow? Standing in the line to see the coffin holding this wonderful husband and father, talking to girls who used to swing from the rafters in high school who are now safely living safe lives, it seemed to hit us all at once: we're almost 30. Which isn't really old, but there's no denying the fact that time is moving forward at an alarming rate. There's no denying that as spiritual and thankful as I am, death isn't always fair or justified. There's no denying that the tomorrow I seem to always wish for may not actually come.

So while I welcomed a few more cookies and late mornings than I expected to this week, I also started thinking about the one part of life I have absolutely no peace or serenity around: the dying part of life.

My brother thinks I'm an insane maniac for allowing the idea of ghosts or karma or reincarnation to be possible. But then again, I know people who think you're an insane maniac for not believing. So that's what a lot of 2011 is going to be about: my search for answers.

I want to be more okay with the unknown.

(Also: stop stress-inhaling all those cookies and then spitting them out all over myself)

Merry Christmas Bitches!

2010-12-23T21:03:00.002-07:00

...Hope you like my present.

Dear Santa & The Best Re-Gifting Giveaway EVER

2010-12-19T19:02:00.003-07:00

“I keep the telephone of my mind open to peace, harmony, health, love and abundance. Then whenever doubt, anxiety, or fear try to call me, they keep getting a busy signal and soon they'll forget my number.”

~ Edith Armstrong

I love gifts.

Gifts, gifts, gifts.

No matter how old I'll get, how rich I'll become, I'm always going to have a Christmas list that's a mile long. Call it childish or greedy, selfish or self-absorbed: I love presents. I mean, I don't expect to get everything I ask for and handing out gifts is almost as much fun as getting them - but if I'm going to be honest with you, I have to say that nothing rings my bell more than opening up pretty wrapping paper to find something even prettier inside.

If I could write to Santa this year - instead of my parents, who shake their head whenever the words "lots of gold" appear - I'd only ask him for two things.

Dear Santa:

Please bring me a Man who loves me with the same velocity I love him, who's dead sexy, has no drama or baggage, enjoys his family, works out, finds time for the spiritual journey, loves what he does, believes in truth, passion and fidelity - and enjoys sex at a fairly constant rate of 6 times a week. Please bring him to me now. I'm ready, Santa. I've said it a million different ways.

Please bring me career success; a producer or studio with money and direction who falls for what I write and wants to make it come alive, big checks, respect and constant work doing what I love. Please bring it to me now. I'm ready, Santa. I've said it a million different ways.

Thanks. Enjoy the cookies and the white russian.

Of course, when it comes down to it, things aren't what I want at all. Things are pretty and flashy, but what I'm searching for these days is the Big Picture. The soul and heart kind of Big Picture. I've made due with very little; and so this year, I'd like Santa to provide me with a lot more.

Now comes the fun part: recently, I won a contest by Ms. Blunt Delivery (if you don't know who she is, I recommend a fast trip over to amazing town): cookies from The Bitter Bakery. But guess what? The awesome bitches over at Bitter had already sent me Christmas cookies - which I ended up hoarding and stuffing into my mouth like a Ethiopian orphan. And so, instead of allowing more sugary goodness to enter my bloodstream, I decided to pass the love along and send these delicious cookies to one lucky reader!

Here's all you have to do: In the comments, tell me what you'd order Santa to bring you. Let me know if you're a follower or have just recently become one. By the 24th, I'll have picked a winner - and you'll receive your delicious treat during that weird, boring limbo period between Christmas and New Years.

'Tis the season

for sugary debauchery.

Let's Keep The Crazy To A Minimum, Mmmkay?

2010-12-12T20:54:00.000-07:00

“For business reasons, I must preserve the outward signs of sanity.”

~ Mark Twain

The thing about being on your own is

you have to learn how to soothe yourself.

Sure, I live with 6 other people, but I don't always want to invite friends to witness my psychotic moments. You know, those moments or series of minutes or even hours when you're certain that you must be the most fucking insane person on the planet? When all you can do is pace around your room, stress-eat two cupcakes, let the same thoughts run on a gerbil wheel through your head until you seriously consider bashing your face against the wall to get them to stop?

Yeah. I don't always want to pass out invitations to this.

At this point, I've become pretty good at learning how to deal with my straitjacket times. My last relationship was so touch and go that I couldn't always count on the guy to be there like I needed, and sometimes he was even the cause of those times, so they needed to be dealt with by me and only me. After years of being on my own and then a year of being with someone who often made me feel like I still was - I've developed a First Aid Kit for just these kind of psychotic episodes.

Unfortunately, drinking liquor or smoking weed or ingesting some other kind of mind altering substance is not part of this First Aid Kit - no matter how much I want them to be at the time. Because you know what makes a girl even more insane than she already is? Drinking half a bottle of cheap wine. That combination basically turns me into Godzilla. I could crush a town. No joke.

After I feel my freak out start to roll from my feet up to my brain, I immediately stop what I'm doing. I take a few deep breaths. If this psychotic moment is too strong to be restrained by deep breathing, I have to drop down onto the floor and meditate my fucking brain off. If I need to meditate for an hour, I'll do it. If I have basically hypnotize myself, stay present with my breaths until I forget my name, I'll do it. It's the only thing besides a Xanex that actually works. Meditating and asking for strength from my angels or spirit guides or God or the Universe or whoever the hell is doling out the strength at the moment.

Would I rather have a man scoop me up and just let me cry it the fuck out on his shoulder? Uh, yeah. Would I rather lie against someone's chest and be rocked to sleep and held through the moments? Of course. But what can you do? Until I meet him (and hello? I am readier than ever to DO THAT), I've got to be my own caretaker. And let's be honest: I'll have to be my own caretaker even after I meet him. Because love is nothing if not impermanent.

And while my own personal One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest times still aren't a party, they're so much better than they were a few years ago. New York City encourages you to go insane in public. To wallow in it until all you're wearing is a ratty blanket and knee socks and smeared lipstick. Those times were not pretty. Oh no, they were not.

So golf claps for moving forward. And for storing the alcohol on a shelf that I can't reach anyway.

Get Your Ego Off Of Me

2010-12-06T15:44:00.003-07:00

"I don't want the giant ego. I don't want to become Kevin Costner, singing on the soundtrack to The Postman."

~Joss Whedon

The older I get,

the more certain I am that nothing is for certain.

Which is why it really fucks my shit up when people give advice with an iron fist. I just don't think life works that way. Just because you're 100% certain of something doesn't mean it's exactly what someone else's situation calls for.

I've somehow subscribed to 198587 screenwriting email newsletters, but barely read any of them, because I honestly don't have the time to read about all the ways I can improve or sell my script. There's an infinite number of ways. Who the hell has time for that? I have three jobs to work and reality TV to watch and overpriced cheese to buy.

But today, probably because I drank a crapload of caffeine and have gotten SO MUCH DONE in so little time, I ended up reading an article about how it's a necessity to move to LA if you want to be a successful screenwriter.

I've heard this opinion, and the exact opposite, more times than I can count, and each time someone claims to have an opinion the equivalent of the Ring of Mordor on this issue, I want rip my hair out strand by painful strand. Because the truth is, there's no real answer. There's no formula to becoming famous. Someone makes a YouTube video featuring cats eating string and someone else belts their soul out on a subway platform. Someone writes a fantastic script and wins a contest, someone else fucks someone's brother and gets their script to that brother's producer sibling. Talent and hard work will keep you in the game, but there's no telling how you'll actually make that first appearance.

And sure, I'm sensitive about this subject - I don't live in LA and my shit hasn't sold yet - but no amount of steely advice is going to change these two facts.

I guess I'm just at this point in my life where I've been trying so hard for so long, being as proactive as humanly possible, that my tolerance for simplistic recommendations is pretty much zero. Most of us who want something, like, really want something, have been busting our asses for it as long as we can remember. Don't get on your high horse around us. Come down to our level. Commiserate in the mud with us. Toast to the absurdity of it all. If you've been there and done that, tell me about it, teach me about it, don't shove it down my throat.

Dear amazing, kickass readers, if someone's been peering down at you from a place of cheap ego, tell them to fuck off. Give them a verbal uppercut. Even if you're in church. Especially if you're in church. Tell them to fuck off and then do it your way. Because guess what? Until they're a pod person who can inhabit your body at will, they have no idea what works best for you.

[...Except if it's your mom.

She might actually know]

I Mean, Diamonds Look Good On My Fingers

2010-11-30T21:17:00.003-07:00

"If you are comfortable with being vulnerable you will attract love"

~ Deepak Chopra

I've been dreaming about dogs a lot, lately.

I know. Weird.

I think it might have something to do with what dogs represent, though. How they'll never leave you, always love you, be constantly happy to see you...it's kinda obvious that what I really want is a husband.

I mean, I also want a dog -

but I think this life partner thing is a little more important at the moment.

In the past, I'd laugh hysterically whenever someone asked me if I wanted a husband. The word just didn't seem to fit in my world. Husband, 401K, sensible shoes...these things were like ancient Greek to me (a language I unfortunately tried to learn for an entire year in college until I bombed the final because one day I woke up and realized that learning ancient Greek was a ridiculous way to spend $40,000 a year). A husband is what other people had. It's what my mom and her friends had.

But somewhere along the line, the word started to take root. If someone asked me if I wanted a husband I'd still laugh, but underneath it all, the desire was stronger than I'd ever admit.

A few months ago I had my first wedding dream and for the last couple of weeks I've been waking up with a severe need to hold someone. My last relationship was the antithesis of romance and commitment, but try as it might, it couldn't shake this new knowledge that yes - I want to be someone's wife.

I'm still gong to buy ridiculous shoes, tight dresses covered in glitter and a drink too many vodka sodas out at the bar. I'm still going to blast Top 40 while I clean the house in booty shorts and hunch over my screenplay for hours like a geek. I'm sure I'll still daydream about being in a Jake Gyllenhaal and Joseph Gordon-Levitt sandwich and throw down $50 to see a Chippendales performance anytime, anywhere. I won't change (okay, I probably won't sleep with strangers anymore), I'll just be part of a pair.

I have no baggage.
No regrets.
Minimal sexual hang-ups

and know how to share a remote.

I'm probably ready.

The Year That Gratefulness Built

2010-11-24T16:07:00.001-07:00

“Whatever we are waiting for - peace of mind, contentment, grace, the inner awareness of simple abundance - it will surely come to us, but only when we are ready to receive it with an open and grateful heart.”

~ Sarah Ban Breathnach

I'm sitting at work, bored out of my fucking mind

because almost everyone in the office has gone for the holiday.

Since there's absolutely nothing to do -

(I've refilled my coffee cup twice in the last hour just so I could walk around a little.
I am JACKED on caffeine)

I might as well take the time to be grateful about something.

In all reality, I'm grateful for a lot. Maybe more so this year than I have been in the past couple. And it's not because 2010 was the year all my dreams came true. Hardly.

This year I almost had a screenplay bought by a major production studio, only to have them pull out after I went insane writing 4 different drafts (first it wasn't commercial enough, then it was too commercial, then it was too much of a combination of the two, OMFG). I pulled out my hair and some of my heart attempting to stay in a relationship with someone who, now that we're broken up, is either berating me over texts, being intentionally mysterious about his dating life, or just not giving a shit about me at all. I spent the majority of my summer convinced I was going to move to LA, only to recognize after one week there that my body and soul were allergic to it. I struggled to find my place, my purpose and my happiness. My skin freaked the fuck out and spent the last 5 months going on a teenage acne rampage for no apparent reason. I had to console myself through weeks of crying and healing and disappointment.

No, this was not the easiest year I've ever heard.

But I'm still thankful. Happy and thankful.

90% of the time, I'm like a kid with an ice cream cone in a bouncy castle.

Why? I don't really know. I think maybe, somewhere along wading through all the bullshit, I slipped and fell into the beginning of the secret to life: positivity. Ugh. I know. Who wants to punch me? But I don't mean positivity in the simple staple-a-smile-to-your-face-and-ignore-your-feelings way. I mean it in the realizing-all-the-pain-is-beautiful-in-an-achey-kind-of-way. I mean it in the I-am-so-happy-to-be-alive way. I mean it in the I-can-do-whatever-I-want-as-long-as-I'm-not-attached-to-the-details way.

If anything, this year taught me to be utterly aware. There was no running from my emotions or my adult predicaments. There was no one to save me and no one with the answers. Meditation, self-love and community were the things that got me through. I had to make my own happiness, even when it seemed like a freaking desert out here.

Things that reappear day after day after day: family, real friendships, the peace of sitting with myself, good food, creativity, connection, dreams, hope...these are the things that really matter. These are the things I am truly, unequivocally, down on my knees grateful for.

I am conscious.

Awake more viscerally than I have ever been.

Is there any greater joy than tasting the true flavor of life every day?

[Alright. Pumpkin pie might be a greater joy. Or, hot men covered in pumpkin pie]

I am grateful for every second I have on this planet.

I'm grateful that I can write about it.

I am grateful for you.

[Also: I am grateful that my gym is closed tomorrow and I have no work to I can sleep the fuck in and then wake up and walk around in sweatpants until it's time to eat so much my eye twitches.]

I Used To Hoard People. Now I'm Done.

2010-11-22T17:36:00.001-07:00

“Whoever is careless with the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important matters.”

~ Albert Einstein

There are lots of things I'm not great at:

denying myself hot, impracticable shoes,

parallel parking

turning down pastries,

and fighting the urge to stare at myself in any mirror I pass

But one thing you can count on from me

is keeping my word.

On my 27th birthday this year, I decided to get a rather large tattoo (my parents were thrilled) to promote the only way of living that makes sense to me. I don't lie. Not about my emotions, my bad habits, or anything else. I constantly fight to be 100% real (unless you're a cop trying to give me a speeding ticket. Then I may tell you a story. A fairytale of sorts. ...That I want you to believe).

I'm the friend who lets you know there's spinach in your teeth, that horizontal stripes are not your best look, and to stay away from that fugly guy at the bar. I do it with love, of course, always with love - but there's no reason I should ever need to be disingenuous.

And yet, I've allowed people into my life who are exactly that; they say one thing and do another, promise me roses and bring me weeds, or just completely disappear until they need something and figure I can help. I've dated these people, called them my friends and given up countless hours in a vain attempt to get them to stop being so fucking hypocritical.

The problem is, if someone isn't ready to face their own music,

there's no way in hell I can make them.

My entire life, I've been afraid of letting relationships go. Call it christian guilt, call it ultra-sensitivity, call it blind naivety...I'm just not good at shutting the door. I'm like one of those crazy hoarders who have piles and piles of absolute crap in their living room - except instead of old newspapers and broken pots and pans, I've got people. I remember sobbing in a therapist's office a few years ago because the idea of never speaking to someone again was so awful I temporarily lost all sense of reason. Snot was running out of my nose and tissues were crumpled in my fists and I looked up at this therapist like a three-year-old and asked him why it had to be like that. He couldn't answer. At that point in my life, I wasn't ready to let go. I piled a few more pounds of trash in my living room and pretended I could live with it.

But we've all seen that TLC show.

Even the weirdest hoarder feels better after they're forced to clean house.

So I'm officially finished. Act like a shitty friend once, and I'll chalk it up to being a human. Act like a shitty friend twice, and I'm out. No more third, fourth or fifty-second chances. I just don't have the energy anymore. I'm no longer scared to drop that which does me no good.

I have better things to do with my time these days.

Not the least of which includes walking past all those hot shoes covered in glitter while I Christmas shop for other people.

Will...not...buy...4 inch...pumps...covered in glitter...

Just Say No To The Boy

2010-11-11T22:21:00.002-07:00

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit.
~William Shakespeare

I recently got a new job.

There's a cute guy who works there, too.

But I'm avoiding him. At all costs.

He's got tattoos. Brooding eyes and sweet lips, an acid sense of humor and a deep affinity for swearing. Surely, under those work clothes, there's a hot bod that no doubt sees the gym regularly. He's just my type.

Which is why I'm avoiding him.

He's everything I've dated in the past. Everything I've fallen for and then regretted months or years later. If I truly want to leave my history behind me, I have to stay away from tattooed boys who undoubtedly have issues.

Unless it comes out that he's getting his PhD or loves his parents or somehow has a good stash of money somewhere - it just can't happen. No matter how cute he is or how much he talks to me whenever we bump into each other.

The next man I date will have a savings account. He will have a good career. He won't be an emotional cripple. Maybe he won't have those sexy tattoos or that intensity that can only come from someone who's been fighting their whole life...but at this point, I'll take a nicely furnished condo or a car that's a least half paid off over any kind of wounded smolder.

I've done the wounded smolder.
Eventually, that shit wears you out.

Last night, the Ex told me he's going out on a date this weekend. Knowing him, the whole thing won't amount to much, but it still hurt me. In fact, it caused my usually calm demeanor to wrap itself into knots for a good while. He beat me to the punch. He went out on a date before me. I'm replaceable. Why am I freaking out? Maybe I really am the stalker he claims I am. Maybe my self worth really is tied to what he thinks of me...

Technically, I know none of that is true - but that's the kind of thinking your head will do if you date someone emotionally incapable of truly loving or committing. That's the kind of thinking that goes with arms covered in tattoos and brooding silences. It's the kind of thinking I've been way too familiar with.

Hopefully, my quick exits and nervous laughter

won't make the cute coworker decide I'm an awkward ice queen.

Sorry sweetheart. I just can't do it again.

My heart is begging me to just say no

to the broken boy.

I Will No Longer Require That "Sad Indie" Playlist

2010-10-24T18:52:00.004-06:00

“A person's maturity consists in having found again the seriousness one had as a child, at play”

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

There was a time in my life when I craved intensity.

I think it was subconscious; I wasn't an outwardly dramatic girl, but emotional upheavals would follow me wherever I went. Of course, I created them. I wasn't aware of that fact, but the roller coaster rides were my own personal kind of black magic. I wasn't good at regulating. Either unicorns existed, or the devil was my stalker.

Having just moved into a house with 6 other women, many of whom are just entering their early twenties, I am constantly reminded of those years in my own time line - and I'm so happy they're over.

Something has settled inside my heart in the last year and a half - any and all drama is reserved for the scripts I type up late at night. I mean, I still have moments of panic, of sadness, of utter confusion - even despair, but I don't invite them in to sleep next to me anymore. I don't give them absolute power over my life. This may mean that I'm a much more boring person now than I was when I was in college in Boston or getting my MFA in New York, but seriously - who gives a fuck?

I like it this way.

I'm hoping I can keep it this way.

I have no regrets - if my quest for balance makes my art a little less vibrant, then so be it. The whole idea of burning out before growing old, that sounds terrible to me. I want to be 93, sitting in a rocking chair, happily snoozing in the sun with a cat on my lap and 3 male attendants with six-packs making me a turkey dinner in the kitchen. You can't get there if you're pulling your guts out every time you create something.

In grad school, I became the girl who fell asleep at parties and woke up to find people hooking up with each other in bathrooms and on balconies. Back then I felt kind of loser-ish for sliding into the crevice of a couch while adult versions of spin the bottle were going on in the next room. No more. I fully embrace that part of myself; the part that knows choosing a cap nap over an orgy will result in a much calmer tomorrow.

Of course, I'm not completely swearing off things like orgies or falling into a table full of liquor bottles because of the amount of free tequila I've just consumed (<--sad, true story), I'm just going to let those things occur every once in a while - unless I'm not feeling it. And then I'll just stay home and watch Intervention on Hulu.

Maybe this is what maturity really means:

letting the desire for a full, rich life

overtake the desire for instant gratification.

Like A Boob Job On A Page

2010-10-19T21:04:00.001-06:00

At moments of great enthusiasm it seems to me that no one in the world has ever made something this beautiful and important.

~M.C Escher

Sometimes I can't write.

I'm in between scripts - which, for me, is the worst place to be. I believed so strongly in the last two things I wrote - and it's so hard to see them lying in limbo...just begging for someone to breathe life into the pages.

And so now I'm at this place where I stare at the page and doubt everything I attempt. My brain is so full of change and personal processing, I can barely get outside my head long enough to make something for dinner. And even then I burn it.

Everyone wants Big Concept this and Action Script that...and my stomach turns over at the thought of even starting something with explosions and guns. I mean, I fell asleep during the first 15 minutes of The Matrix. Lost lost me after the third episode. All I could think about during those Tom Cruise Mission Impossible movies was that Tom Cruise runs weird. See what I'm working with?

When you put your heart on a page, you're giving yourself over to the Universe. You're sacrificing a little piece of your person for the possible betterment of society. You're doing a noble thing. You're telling the truth and shoving your feet into the ground and showing the world exactly who you are.

But here's the thing: so far, no one's wanted to buy my heart.

They've enjoyed my heart. Asked me to do copious rewrites around it. Admitted that it can't be ignored. But there's no money in my blood and sweat and tears. At least not yet.

I suppose this is what every artist struggles with; we can serve ourselves up on a silver plate, quivering and real - or we can wrap ourselves in cheap leopard print and make a couple million.

At this point, I still want to believe I'll make those millions (and I do mean millions) without totally whoring myself out...but if this goes on for much longer, don't be surprised if I'm slipping on those five inch heels and giving them a literary lap dance.

Are You There, God? It's Me - Freaking Out

2010-10-15T13:30:00.002-06:00

Today, I am worried.

This is the bullshit flip flop thing that happens whenever you make a big decision that changes the course of your life momentarily. Driving home this morning from a meeting, I couldn't help but wonder if the beautiful landscape coming into view was going to nurture me - or just set me back.

It's so hard. And so exhausting to continually deal with it. Some days I'm perfectly happy with my choice. Other days the devil on my shoulder is kicking me in the head. What the fuck are you doing - staying in Colorado? How are you going to achieve what you want to achieve living in Colorado? Someone just offered you a job in Santa Monica the other day. You could have lived there. What the hell?!

My heart is divided into two pieces. One piece is dedicated to screenwriting. To creating films and scripts. To that lifestyle. The other piece just wants to be happy, dammit. Just wants to be comfortable, warm, in love, lying on the grass, enjoying the moment. These two pieces pull at me every day. Sometimes they make me sit at an empty kitchen table; afraid. Or walk around town feeling completely and utterly at sea. Alone. Lonely and close to tears with an undefinable emotion.

A belief in fate is the only thing that keeps me from ripping out my hair.

And even that get shaky on days like this.

For now, all I can do is open my arms to the sweet, tender fall sun

and ask whatever God is up there -

to help a sistah out.

Finally. My Heart Is Mine Again

2010-10-12T22:24:00.000-06:00

“I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth - and truth rewarded me.”

~ Simone de Beauvoir

I know he's out there.

There's been two things on my mind: death and love. One could argue they're one in the same (if one was a depressed poet who chain smoked and cried in the Romantic Fiction section of Boarders on Friday nights), but for whatever reason, these words have been circling my brain for past couple of weeks like the chorus of that song you can't remember the lyrics to.

I think I've just started to realize that I'm worthy of real, earthly love. Whatever these past relationships have taught me, they've pushed me to a ledge where I can either believe my heart is a precious thing, or continue to let myself be used up. These men who have loved me - they've been good men. In their own right, they make this world a better place. But what they've done to me - no, what I've let them do to me - won't ever sit right. Seek out the same personality over and over again, what do you expect?

For whatever reason, the idea that I don't need to do this again has hit me like the most well meaning slap in the world. It's taken me 27 years to finally believe that I am worthy of something healthy. To finally believe a guy like that is out there for me.

Tonight I almost went crazy wondering where my ex-boyfriend was - he just didn't think to call. He just didn't care enough. If I'm 20 minutes late, he'll call me 8 times and then leave angry messages. But him? He can be 2 hours late without a word. That was our one and a half year long relationship in a nutshell. When I move on Saturday, I will promise myself not to yearn for it back.

I'm done. Done 3 times over. Done to infinity.

No. More.

It might have taken me a few years short of 30, but I'm finally ready for a relationship that doesn't weigh 10,000 pounds. That doesn't hurt. That doesn't make me wonder why love is so painful. I'm ready, mama. Ready, ready, ready.

And death? Well, it's inevitable. Healthy, beautiful relationship or not. Dream job or not. California or Colorado. You do all this heavy thinking and eventually all you come back to is the fact that life is just an eyelash in the scope of things. So why not strive and yearn for happiness? Why not feel worthy? why not let go of the people who stand in the way of those things?

It all seems so simple.
And I guess it is, when you come down to it.

Of Course, It Was Here All Along

2010-10-03T20:04:00.000-06:00

“Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful.”

~ Herman Cain

I was prepared for backlash.

For people to be disappointed, to judge, to look at me sideways and sigh because I was such chicken shit. I had my fists clenched for an entire week, ready to defend myself and my decision to stay in Colorado. But here's the thing: there was no one to fight.

Nobody even blinked. Good for you, They said. That decision feels grounded. I think you made the right choice. I'm glad you're staying.

For three whole months, I was sure I was going to move to LA on my own, sure this mountain town wasn't for me, sure my future and my happiness was waiting for me in a city by the sea. I was worried about money, about a job, about friends, about happiness...but I pushed past that because only thumb sucking babies let that sort of shit stop them. And then I went out for a week - and my body collapsed against the Wall Of Fears that had been building up for all that time. I cried. I couldn't say yes to the perfect apartment. I woke up in the middle of the night and proceeded to throw up - hardcore - for hours. My body was begging me to rethink this plan. To wait until there was a real reason, a real job or opportunity, before packing myself up for the umpteenth time.

Let's just stay for a little while longer, my body suggested.
Because now that I stop and look around, I like it here.

And you know what? I do. Now that I open my eyes, I realize this place has given me roots like no other place in the past 5 years. There's no way to tell how long I'm going to stay, but now that I've stopped pushing it away, I realize it's been holding me tight since day one.

Let's make no mistake - I'm still 100% committed to becoming the screenwriter that nerdy 12-year-old kid with bifocals (ugh. It's true) told the world she'd be, but I'll do it on my own terms. I won't throw my happiness to the lions. I won't let the Shoulds push me around anymore. I can't foresee the future of this choice, but I can feel the present. And the present is happy. Happy like she hasn't been in a long time.

In a little less than 15 days I'll finally be moving

out of the apartment I've shared with a man who, as much as I love him,

has hijacked my heart for much too long.

I'm ready to see this mountain town like new.

I'm ready to find the right kind of man. And let him love me the way I deserve.

I'm ready to make this the move

I've needed all along.

I Make My Own Rules, Dammnit

2010-09-25T23:39:00.000-06:00

“As for the future, your task is not to foresee it, but to enable it.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I am exhausted.

But I am clear. Finally.

This is my last night in a hotel room in California. I've been here since Monday, trying to find a place to live, meeting with a Big Producer (who's office was the size of my last apartment) and generally asking myself if this is where I'm supposed to be.

From the first moment I stepped off the plane, I felt strange. Unsettled. Unhappy. Every step felt like a fight. I almost cried every 5 minutes. My parents joined me for the first part of the trip and were concerned I was having a mental breakdown. My face broke out like a 14-year-old teenager who works at Burger King. I found a fantastic place to live with an awesome girl by the beach but all I could do was hesitate and panic.

Why? Reason number one has to do with the fact that if I moved out here now, I'd be moving without a job. I'd be moving to a big, sprawling city without knowing a soul and without a job. That felt so wrong. No matter how much I want to be a successful screenwriter, happily skipping into LA without any real reason to be there...just didn't feel right.

Everyone kept telling me I should do this. So I sucked it up and told the Universe I was going to do it no matter what. Everyone told me I SHOULD. That it MADE SENSE. I fixed it in my mind and I plowed forward and then I got here and couldn't stop feeling miserable. This will be my new life, I said to myself, looking out at the traffic and the huge highways and the jobs that would net me about $29,000 a year. I wanted to psych myself up. But all I did was cry. And feel guilty. Because of how miserable this future seemed.

Tonight I felt like I was going to throw up. And then. I just made the decision: not now.

Yes, this Colorado town is where an ex-boyfriend is and feels too small for me to live in forever, but leaving it before I'm ready - I won't. I've traveled before, packed up and left before, and I know the difference between nerves and plain old misery. This week was misery. It's not the time to move. Ex-boyfriend who already has a profile on a dating website (which includes the the words "olive oil, whipped cream, and things I want to do to you with them" in his Interests) be damned. Living through another winter be damned. Finding a new place to live, a new job...be damned. These are things that make me nervous - but not miserable.

In a way, I feel like a little bit of a failure. That I didn't just go out there and DO it. That I backed away again from this giant city. But then I force myself to realize that when the time is right, I'll do it. A great job. A screenwriting deal that doesn't disappear into vapor. These things will invite me. These things will make it easy.

So tonight, I go to sleep exhausted but for the first time in a long time - not miserable. I'm nervous about my choice. Nervous about changing my plans so intensely. Nervous some people will think I'm chicken shit. But I am not miserable.

And that. Tonight. Is success.

These Tears Suck

2010-09-16T15:37:00.003-06:00

“Beauty is ever to the lonely mind a shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind the gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.”

~ Christopher Morley

I am officially a pile of melted emotions on the floor.

I don't know what it is. Could it be because I'm fucking ovulating? Or has my juice just run out? I was doing so well for such a long time. I was so positive about everything. So clear. So ready. I was chomping at the bit to get going.

And then...I don't know. Maybe because it's become a reality. Maybe because my time left in this familiar place has been reduced to days. Maybe because this man who isn't my boyfriend but is so close to being my best friend and anchor has finally started to cry with me about the separation. Maybe it really is my period. Or maybe it's everything. But I'm a mess. A soppy, scared, shaking mess.

I don't know that I can do this.

Next week I'll be looking for housing in a place I'm not sure I can live in. I'm applying for anything and everything I can find - waking up early, sending cover letter after cover letter, spending money on special career sites - and I don't have a job yet. I don't really know anyone out there. I've done everything except literally sacrifice my soul to devil to work with the connections I have to get my scripts moving forward and it yet...there's nothing but crickets.

A sob-snot filled tissue is to my left and fogged up glasses are on my right. Everyone is gone for the day. It's just me and my utter, utter case of the blues.

Leaving someone you love this much, who's pushed and pulled your heart this much, is indescribably difficult. But leaving them for the complete unknown? I feel like it's impossible. Right now, right here, I just don't think I have the strength to do it. I feel fucking awful.

Life doesn't have to suck this hard. I know it.

I'm just not sure what to do.

Except cry like a goddamned baby.

My Positive Thinking Batteries Need a Recharge

2010-09-13T12:19:00.000-06:00

That George Michael song,

- you know, the one about faith? -

has been parading around in my head all day.

Next week I'm taking a 5 day trip out to LA to secure housing. I'd also like to secure a job. Because I want to get my shit together and make a move before October 15th...a date that's coming up much sooner than I ever expected it to.

Faith is the only thing jingling around in my pockets at the moment. I try not to freak out. Try to keep the crying to a minimal. I spend dedicated meditations on the fact that maybe...just maybe...this move will be fantastic. Instead of all the negative stuff my mind has trained me to focus on.

Some people say you can't control your fate, other people say you can. Some people say there's no one watching out for you, other people say there's a whole infield rooting for your success. I don't know. Maybe if I ask for a sign...like...a real obvious one because sometimes I can be an idiot...maybe that will be enough to help me exhale around this entire life transition.

So...someone, somewhere...give me something?

Why Oh Why Can't I?

2010-09-01T22:36:00.000-06:00

“There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other.”

~ Douglas H. Everett

I want to keep dreaming.

What I have in my head is so much more magical than what's right in front of me, espescially right now, so I refuse to wake up. I dream when I'm at the gym, I dream when I'm ordering coffee, I dream in between the hours of staring at someone else's writing, I dream when I'm lying in bed while other people smoke joints and watch shitty, shitty remakes of movies that should never have been touched. I try not to dream when I'm driving, but unfortunately, that's when it's easiest.

I dream about California.

(Like that's original. Who hasn't?)

I dream about the job I'm going to find - the job that'll pay me enough to be comfortable, the job that I'll feel capable and happy at, the job that will help me get one toe-ringed foot into the door. I dream about the place I'll live. How maybe it'll smell like the ocean. How it'll be cute and maybe small and maybe shared but still, home.

I dream about finally selling a script to a company that not only gets it, but makes it. I dream of that script being one of many that people love. And sometimes, when I'm really adventurous or Sting is playing on the radio, I dream of Oscars, red carpet ready dresses, and acceptance speeches.

I dream of finding love. Maybe before the real thing, some fun California boys to get me back on my feet. And then ...what I've been waiting for since I was 12. (Sadly, I've been a sap for years.) The kind of love that doesn't go away. That wants to commit. That has passion interwoven into every exchange. That isn't afraid or timid or slightly off.

That kind of love that makes me feel like my heart's appetite

isn't some weird kind of abnormality.

I dream of happiness. And health. And success. And who are we kidding - wealth. I dream of sliding my toes into the sand and sighing because this is where I want to be for a long, long time.

Sometimes, people tell me that believing in these possibilities is certifiably crazy. But what can I do? A normal existence will never be mine...in this uncertain life I know that one truth. I also know that it's impossible for me not to believe I'll get everything I dream about.

So this is where I am. This is what I dream about. This is what I will have. One day.

Soon.

Weeping in the Good Way

2010-08-15T16:04:00.001-06:00

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there.”

~Rumi

They say that when your heart is a pile of broken pieces on the floor, you feel everything.

And you do. Not just your own pain and confusion, but the pain and confusion of everyone else; be it a girl trying desperately to find a table at a crowded coffee shop without looking awkward or a sad old man sitting on a bench. I want to cry about 40 times a day; not just for myself, but for everybody.

I want to cry for the awkward person at the gym who seems lonely. I want to cry for the raccoon that got totally mangled on the highway. I want to cry for a friend who just found out that the guy she was totally falling for has a huge criminal record. I want to cry for Oprah because it's her last season and for the hotdog guy on the sidewalk who just sits and stares at nothing.

I'm sure these people don't need me to cry for them, but tough. I can't help it.

My tears have a mind of their own.

I even want to cry for the man who broke my heart, the man I'm still living with, the man I'm learning to love in a way that lets me leave him. I want to cry for him because I'm afraid he isn't going to be able to take care of himself the way I can – and because it's inevitable that I won't be taking care of him much longer.

Everyone from my mom to strangers have told me that living with your ex is tortuous and awful and anything would be better, even living in a tent (fuck living in a tent though. Tents have no outlets). But here's the unusual fact; it's good for me.

Sometimes, you can break up with a person and it can be awful for a while but because you two have to interact the entire time and no one can just pack up and go away, you learn that awful fades. Awful fades and is replaced with difficult and soon even difficult gets soft around the edges. Because even though he hurt me and was never truly right for me, I can love him despite these things and I can fall asleep each night a little more sure that I don't need him.

If we had broken up and refused to speak, I would have relied on old habits of imagining the worst and leaning on bitterness and hate to get me through. But you can't hate someone who still makes you dinner and cleans the toilet. You can only grieve for what once was and is never coming back, and move on with tiny, determined baby steps.

So yes – my heart is delicate and my tears catch me at the most inopportune moments – like asking a pharmacist if my birth control is still covered by my new insurance – but I have learned that running from the ache is pointless and immature. Bitterness is pointless and immature. Acceptance, even if it's encased in sadness and the itchy feeling of regret, is the thing that will truly make me alright.

Save Them At Safeway

2010-08-13T16:33:00.002-06:00

“My friend asked me if I wanted a frozen banana. I said 'No, but I want a regular banana later, so... yeah.'”
~ Mitch Hedberg

[Things haven't really be too "LOL!" around here as of late. My fault.

One should never blog right before they're about to ugly cry for 27 minutes.]

But breaking from the pattern for a minute - I think something's going on at my local neighborhood Safeway. Actually, any Safeway in general.

For those of you not familiar, Safeway is a grocery store. There's nothing really unusual about Safeway. Except. Everyone who works there seems utterly scared out of their skulls.

Whenever I need some peanut butter or soymilk, I'll run into Safeway and keep my eyes focused on the floor because if you accidentally look at a Safeway employee, they will lock eyes with you and plead, "would you like me to point your towards the grapes? They're on sale today!"

That's what their mouth is saying. Their eyes are screaming, "PLEASE DEAR GOD LET ME HELP YOU!! MY MANAGER IS WATCHING!! PLEASE DON'T JUST WALK AWAY!!! HELP ME BE USEFUL!! I'M AFRAID!!"

The other day I actually had to ask a guy where the hot dogs were, and before I had even finished my question he had answered me:

"They're in aisle 18 wouldyoulikemetoshowyou?!?!"

"That's OK, " I said, backing away from his big, watery eyes, "I can find it."

His face fell, and as he sadly went back to putting giant chickens in bins, I felt as though I had just sentenced a good man to death. Maybe that's what happens at Safeway. If you don't help at least one person a day, they fire you and then kill you. Or throw you into Hell. ...Or maybe all three.

Can Do

2010-08-02T17:32:00.000-06:00

“Our subconscious minds have no sense of humor, play no jokes and cannot tell the difference between reality and an imagined thought or image. What we continually think about eventually will manifest in our lives.”

~ Robert Collier

This is what I need to do: Find An Excellent Job in LA.

That will determine, really, everything. Because at the moment it seems like I'll be going out there with nothing more than a car full of stuff and a bunch of hope, a job will be the thing that anchors me, that tells me where to live and who I'll be talking to.

And not just any job. Oh no, I'm keen on how this whole manifesting thing works. An excellent job. With good people, a good boss, and good money. I'll be someone's assistant. I'll do it. They just need to be sane. And nice. And sane.

Did I mention not insane?

This is where my energy is going. Not on crying. Not on regret. Not on fear. I can't live like that anymore. Because when I stop and think about it, I realize – I've been afraid that I can't do it, that I won't make it, that it will suck – for far too long.

I'm 27 years old, dammnit. It's time to start believing that I can make shit happen.

Nothing Left But That

2010-07-26T16:10:00.000-06:00

"Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.”

~ George Iles

If you're me, when you're breaking up with someone it feels like a freight train is continually screeching to a halt inside your chest. You're also wracked with guilt and an insane sense of self-grossed-outness. If you're me, you spend hours crying on your bed, wishing you could rip the weak parts of you out with any tool necessary. You'd do anything to just "get over it."

If you're me, you've only truly loved two men in your life; both of who seemed to get over you in a span of 5 - 7 days. This fact is disgusting to you. Not to mention a swift right hook to your self-esteem. Even though the situations are different, you still chose men who don't love at your velocity. You gave them all of you and wanted something they couldn't give in return. You did it twice. This is your reality.

If you're me, you're 27 years old tomorrow and completely, utterly unsure of where to go next. Weeks ago you had a man, a plan, a destination...and now you have none of it. How will you get to California on your own? Can you really pack up and do it all over again? Are you really supposed to? Why the fuck does shit hurt you so bad while other people go about their Facebooking, eating, and TV-watching life without a hitch?

I've got no answers.

Again.

If you're me, you know you're not supposed to compare your life anyone else's, but how can you avoid the fact that so many you know and care about are married, working, and just going about their lives in a way that you can only dream of? How can you avoid the utter despair that surges through your veins at random hours...because you've got nothing except a computer, a keyboard and some clothes?

The ache is harsh.

These men you have chosen, the way they've unpacked you in a week while you're not sure you'll ever find that last sock, they've pushed you to the edge of who you really are. Because what kind of woman does that to herself?

At this point, your heart feels like it's been put through a dishwasher and a lawnmower at the same time. It's tired of being disappointed. Of feeling lonely. It's tired of the type of man you've chosen to love. It's just exhausted. It can't even fathom what comes next. It's run two marathons it wasn't even training for in the first place. All it wants is to be cradled to sleep.

If you're me, you're utterly confused as to why you feel pain the way you do.

...All there is now is quiet hope. Hope that you can rebuild, yet again. Hope that you can coax your heart out into the light again. Hope that you'll figure out where you're supposed to be and when you're supposed to be there. Hope that somewhere there's a man who loves just the way you do who's looking for a girl who looks just like you.

There's nothing left but that.

Hit and Run

2010-07-22T17:41:00.000-06:00

"My love lies bleeding"

~ Thomas Campbell

I feel like a deer who just got hit by a car.

And I'm lying on the side of the road, blinking in the sudden darkness, afraid to move or even stand up because what if something's irrevocably broken? So I just wait here, breathing in and out, desperately listening for someone who's come to help me...

There are times in my life when I truly believe in magic. When I can hear it pop in the air and feel it all around me. I'm willing to bet all my worldly possessions that there really is a rhyme and reason to everything. Fate holds me by the hand and pats me on the back. Sings me to sleep and holds me all night. And then there are times when magic is just a childhood dream. When all the air slips out and I can't breathe because my god, what's happened?

It's immature to say things feel suckerpunchly unfair - but at the moment, they do.

At the moment, if I only cry once in a 24 hour period, its a good day.

...My eyes have finally adjusted to the dark out here, but I'm still too afraid to move. I breathe in and out and at least that feels okay. But the impact was too intense for me to do anything else. My ears are still waiting for footsteps from someone who's come to save me, but so far?

It's been quiet.

Oh Hi, This Sucks

2010-07-14T22:01:00.000-06:00

“Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future.”

~ Fulton Oursler

My life just threw up on itself.

There's so much more to be said, obviously, but I just can't muster the energy to dig it up from where it lies, heavy and cold, sloshing somewhere between my stomach and heart.

For the past couple of days, I've been staring into the scariest, stupidest places in my psyche. I've been desperately wanting a safety blanket and only coming up with a glass of chocolate soy milk and the hum of the air conditioner. That's all I get right now. Nothing soft. No one to catch me.

This isn't depression - this is just life in florescent lighting.

The Water's So Damn Cold, But I'll Dive In

2010-07-05T21:26:00.000-06:00

“Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her: but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.”

-- Voltaire

One of my biggest fears is being alone.

I'm an independent girl and I can take care of myself, but that doesn't mean I don't want someone special. I've lived the single life for years, but that doesn't mean I like it. I'm better when coupled. I'm happier. There's lots of reasons for this, one of which has to do with the fact that having someone in my corner, someone truly awesome, helps me feel like I can rest. And just be.

I love to be in love. Passion, romance, sensuality...that shit is amazing. It's so amazing I've done stupid, ridiculous stuff in an attempt to find it. I mean, I have embarrassed myself, people. I've asked guys out (suppperrr embarrassing), I've tried online dating, I've even attempted to date friends in hopes that something magic will happen and I'll suddenly find them attractive. I am Love's bitch, plain and simple.

Which is why it's so hard for me to admit when a relationship isn't working. I make excuse after excuse and try harder and keep my mouth shut and hope through the night that something will change. I fucking give it all I got until one day I wake up and realize: hey, I'm super unhappy.

There's no use getting sentimental: I'm single again.

The relationship was hard from the start. Never exactly what I wanted. I learned so much and loved so much but it never felt like something that warranted jumping around the house in joy. We still live together. We may still move out to California together in the fall. Does that sound fucked up? It's not really, because any and all passion, sensuality and romance had left the building months ago. He just couldn't do it. We were basically friends before we -- as undramatically as possible -- broke up on Facebook.

There is still sadness though. And fear galore. Anxiety, frustration, loneliness...it's here. Even though I'm not quite burning pictures up with a lighter (a la my last serious relationship) I'm doing my usual "just broke up" dance which includes not eating and going to the gym twice a day because anything is better than starting at a wall and contemplating the fact that I am alone.

I hate this place, but I do know it. It's all very familiar, like slipping on a pair of uncomfortable shoes.

I'm not freaking out. I'm not grabbing my pillow soaked in tears. I'm just sighing. Lying on my bed and looking at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck I have to do to find a man who isn't like a pile of bricks. The next relationship I'm in, it's going to be equal. No more carrying the weight of someone else. No more fixer-uppers. He is going to be awesome and he's going to give me exactly what I need. Promise.

Now, I know everybody's always like, "don't rush right into another relationship" -- but fuck that. I'm ready. I'm so very ready. There's no wounded animal here.

Just an almost 27-year-old woman standing on the kitchen table in her bare feet, pointing at the Universe and saying "give me what I deserve."