City of Angels

"Sometimes you forget how mad this city is, and then you get on the roads and you see it up close and personal, smell the rotten stink of insanity on her breath. The people may seem like polite, well-mannered, well-adjusted folks, but then you hit those streets and you see how miserable they really are. There’s no regard for the sanctity of human life - mine, yours, their own - on these concrete rivers. Sometimes you’ll turn a corner and they’ll just be standing there in the middle of the road: Blank. Unaware. Waiting. Hoping. Praying for the sweet release of death."

-- Robert Brockway on Los Angeles

PS OK, this is really a bit from a nonsensical comedy piece of his on Cracked.com, but it is so brilliantly accurate.

Put the Kettle On

My good friends, the world is not flat (http://www.myspace.com/theworldisnotflat -- ohmigoodness, what a beautiful banner), have released a new album. As a friend and a FAN! (fan!), I bought it; it arrived this week. But! But. This album ("to both sides, dear") makes me feel so alone and warm and angry and strong and tired and pained and sad and renewed and (maybe?) hopeful. (I believe these emotions echo some of the the ones I felt when I heard their first CD.) This album is full of memories of the only place I've ever loved and the only me I've ever wanted to be.

I know there are many, many other influences and inspirations for this album, but the lyrics seem to have come from my own pain, my own pleasure, my own heart; "If I had to choose a place the day they run out of fuel and have to ground all the planes, you know that I would choose right here in this big, old house with you." It's January in England.

Gawd, I don't want to be repetitive, but Oxford, I miss you, I love you, I want you, I need you.

Roxy and Chris, you are everything I always wanted to be but never could.

I Stand Corrected

I don't have to be angry all the time! To-day is what I would call a Good Day, and it's not even 1pm.

Cases in point:
*I didn't want to go to the gym, but I convinced myself to anyway, and I ended up having a good workout.
*While at the gym, the girl I've been eyeing and chatting with for a while asked for my number and e-mail address. (OK, not like THAT, it's because she's going on tour with GUNS 'N' ROSES as their MASSAGE THERAPIST for at least six months and she wants to keep in touch. DO YOU SEE WHY SHE IS SO COOL? Plus, you know how most people sweat when they work out? She just glows.)
*Just after that I found a quarter, heads-up on the floor.
*A friend gave me something I've been waiting for for a few days.
*I was reminded that WORDS ARE SO COOL. This job can be mind-numbingly mechanical at times, but now and again, I come across something here that really makes me happy. Like WORDS.

Oh, and!
*Last night I booked my flight to return to Oxford for a few days in the Spring and attend my very first Wadstock.
*Last night was the first evening in weeks that I didn't get drunk and sad and alone. I've been regularly having incredible amounts of lousy wine every day, but I'm going to take a break from that now. And I began it yesterday.

Life's not all lousy.

Default

Anger is my default mode.

Lately when I've been frustrated or fearful about my applications or lonely and cold in the Los Angeles sun or when I see the ones I love so far away loving each other and I think of my impotence a fear, I just get angry.

I am so angry at myself for letting myself love when I said I wouldn't, for drinking with you till we couldn't talk and I crawled into your bed to not-talk again, for drinking alone till I couldn't walk or keep things straight in my head, for studying so hard I didn't find time to fit myself between the two of you, and for slacking off and ruining my chances to ever do it again.

I have been so angry in my sadness lately, and the self-loathing means I'm even more alone. When did this happen?

Straws

Lately, the only honest, non-stilted writing I do is when I am all-a-drink-a-roo. It is not good or safe or peaceful; it is rarely inspired. But this is something I scribbled last night, this is some piece of my soul as I grasp at familiar-but-fading straws:

The closest you'll have to something upon which to depend is the mist of your favorite perfume on your wrist. Perhaps then you won't feel so alone under the covers, resting your head against your arm (skinonskin) in the dark. When it fades too soon, you press the glass edge of the empty bottle to your veins, not even a drop left to spray, hoping to catch some scent upon your skin.

It's gone. All. Gone.

YOU ARE ALONE.

Ad-dick-shun

Things I've (Lately) Worried I'm Addicted To:
Work
Alcohol
Being Busy
Cheese
Feeling needed
Cocaine
Attention

Things That Make Me Think There are Other Things to Worry About:
Work
My dad coming into my room with produce in his hands asking, "Rina, can you tell me which of these is a pomegranate and which is a persimmon?"
My dad coming into my room fewer than five minutes later asking, "Rina, wait, I forgot, can you tell me again? Which of these is a pomegranate and which is a persimmon?"
Graduate school applications and all the strings attached, especially my referees. In this category, the health problems my referees have had; they put my "needs" in perspective
Sleep
So much art coming in at work; the whole lot of it makes me feel like a teeny, tiny cog in the whole operation.

In any case, I need to focus on:
Applications
Work
Sleep

I think this is what "Life" is supposed to be. I'm not looking forward to it.

Dear Jon Hamm, Please Come Back, Love Rina

I spent a few hours with sort-of-friends to-night and even carved my very first pumpkin ever, but now it's 1.30am and time to go to sleep and I'm painfully lonely. So lonely, in fact, that I hope a character from a dream I had last night comes back to my dreams to-night so I don't feel lonely anymore. I mean, this is a fictional character who appeared (as himself) IN A DREAM and I still want him to come back. To my DREAMS.

Fucked. Up.

And it's not that I'm alone all the time -- I'm never ALONE and I'm often with people I sort of like. But still: Don Draper playing Jon Hamm playing Don Draper loving me (dreams are complicated, duh), come back. Please.

Truthen Drunkery

So, I got drunk. I wrote what I felt, and then I tried to read it again when I was sober. Here's my best bet:

We're having some weather around these parts. When I say weather, I mean wind. But my cigarettes, they're weather-y -- they taste like they used to: smokey, tobacco-y I'm [...] but maybe it's the text from the one woman I love. Things seem real again. She's the only girl I could see myself spending my life with. She's [...] this is fucked up and I used to be able to read the words of my soul but I will never be able to read these words again. [...] writing these [...] used to be able hope. I hope can read these words when I'm sober. Life is a highway. How do I go back to the time when all my cigarettes tasted so good/bad? This is what life is supposed to be. With [...] the cigarettes [...] I don't think happiness is supposed to be a past-file. Life is planned. I don't think she will ever love me like I love her. I'm writing this in the dark. I hope I can read this in the light, because this! This is the moment.

Boss-Man

I'm pretty sure I have the best boss ever. He bought me a car after three months with the company so I wouldn't have to take the bus. He kissed me on the forehead on my birthday and told me I have "many more years to destroy my body." He (and my other boss) bought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers on my birthday. Whenever he can see that I'm stressing out, he asks how I'm doing. And just now? He saw that dazed look on my face again and asked.

See, I had just (a moment before) realized that I'm twenty-two and still living with my folks, without any real idea of when I'm leaving. And hey, even if I do get into grad school (there's a whole 'nother set of anxieties) and go next fall, what about when I'm done there? No marketable skills really come of a master's degree in history -- and then I'll be twenty-FOUR and living with my parents.

So the Boss-Man, he asks, and I tell him and, without a pause, he says, "if there's anything we can do to help you, let me know." And not in that insincere way a lot of people would say that -- he meant, "if you need help finding a place and making rent, let's talk." I mean, this guy, he doesn't just SAY things, he DOES things. He gets thing done. And he's wonderful.

Yeah, I'm living at home at the age of twenty-two and I'm scared and feel a bit useless and I'm spending too much time and money on my addictions and my self-loathing is through the roof and people breathe too close to me, but I have an incredible boss. And he's very nice to look at, too.

Brick

Oh. Shit.

What if I don't get into grad school?

Shitshitshit.

Open Letter to Rachel Shulamit

Dear Baby Frankiel,

You are so cute. All your nicknames are so cute (especially the ones I came up with -- Sully? I mean, your name is Shulamit and you were born just when Pilot Sully landed the plane in the Hudson!). I mean, even when you squawk and squeal, you are cute, so that's saying something. I'm even OK when you cry (most of the time) and I willing to help comfort you (all of the time). But. Dude. All I ask is that you NOT cry and squawk and scream right when I come home from work. I just want a fifteen minute window between parking my car and hearing your shouts.

Please?

Please.

After that, my ears are all yours. Because I love you and you are incredibly cute. I mean, the way that you don't care when you spit up mushed bananas all over your chest and shirt? So adorable (and kinda gross). The way you pet my face when you're tired? Heart-breakingly cute. Even when you pull my hair or earrings or nose -- I mean, as far as I can tell, you have monopolized the Cute Market. Even when you cry in the middle of the night, fine, that's not cute, but I can handle that.

But those fifteen minutes.

Because otherwise, dude, you lose serious Cute Points.

Love,
Rina

PS No matter what your parents say, I'm not "Doda Rina" or "Auntie Rina." Just "Rina." If I'm going to be the Cool Aunt (and I AM -- have you seen my facial piercings? My tattoo?) then I'm just "Rina" to you.

PPS YOU ARE SO CUTE I COULD CRY AND SOMETIMES I DO AND THEN MY OVARIES CRY AND DEAR CHRIST YOU'RE LUCKY I DON'T HAVE A BOY IN MY LIFE BECAUSE I AM TO YOUNG TO GIVE YOU A COUSIN.

Live People Anonymous

At a recent meeting in my brain:

"Hi, my name is Life and I dry up and flake off in little bits when you least expect it, leaving you staring in wonder at me and the little flakey mess I deposit around your home and office. I also love long walks at the beach (where I will dry up and drift away on the ocean breeze) and fluffy puppies (who will grow old and decrepit and die far too soon -- but don't worry, you will die, too)."

"Hi, Life!"

Futile Fire

My, my, how time does pass. I've spent most of the past few months working. It's been really good for me, keeping busy making a bit of money and spending too much of it.

I've been missing Oxford, of course, but in this futile, impotent way. Just missing it without doing anything about it and generally feeling there's not much to be done. I'm applying to grad school there for Fall 2010 and I have plans to visit "at some point" in the next few months. Or few more. But it all seems out of reach or not quite logical. Some times I think about how thrilled I would be to get in to Oxford and how I would celebrate and how it would change my day-to-day. On the other hand, I've thought that if got stuck here for a few more years, would it be so bad? (It would. Wait, would it?)

It's also been hard lately because the SLC kids are going back to that city of dreaming spires and rolling hills and the people that I love this week. When I think about that, I get sick to my stomach and maybe a little angry and just generally desperate. I'm not sure why -- am I jealous? Do I think they'll never appreciate it as much as they should? I know I didn't appreciate it enough. And there will always be people who hate (at least some of) the experience and I hate them for that. The feelings probably also include the anger and frustration with myself for not having made it happen yet ("it" being my return).

Oh, my god, if I could go back in time over and over again, I would relive that year forever. I would Groundhog Day the shit out of Oxford. But I don't have that option. So now begins a new year and a new set of problems and a bundle of fears and obligations and give-upping and recommitting and I have to take it all and relish it all. Maybe one day I'll want to Groundhog Day the shit out of this time.

Oh, hell. I hope not. But just in case ...

Only Opportunities at Hope

Earlier to-night I (drunkenly?) set my FaceBook status to read, "Rina's only opportunities of hope are in remembering the brief moments when you were hers, and hers alone." Then I hoped to write a bunch of memories of the people I love most in the world (funny how they all tend to be my Oxonian friends). I worried how lopsided it might seem on FaceBook, you know, only writing comments about Ox friends, so thought I would try it here, using nicknames (that some of them might not even recognize). I hope when I stumble across memories of these folk, I will bother to insert them here. For my posterity. For my sanity.

STJ: Running into you in your Grown Up Clothes as you parked your bike at Broad/Cornmarket.
Aimz: you sitting on the counter with a bottle of fortified wine the first night I met you. Also, the evening with you me, and Marie (Easter?) when you and I sat on your front stoop and made out (again).Giggling, arm-in-arm, on our way to Tesco's to buy wine on my first night back in town; Giggling, arm-in-arm, on our way to Tesco's to buy wine on my first night back in town.
Pumpkin: you telling me that "loo" is what your mum calls it; also, our only Rose + Rina night in flat night with wine on my bed; Crawling into your bed at 3am after a crazy library stint apologizing for smelling like cigarettes and you says "it's OK I like it."; Giggling, arm-in-arm, on our way to Tesco's to buy wine on my first night back in town.
Dom: Reaching blindly into your window to find your keys to slip into your room to catch up on sleep before my tutorial. puking up your sleeve in that cab;
Al: you being the only one there when I finally realized where my passport was -- and then me suggesting opening a bottle of wine to celebrate the recovery of it.
Grump: your cane -- gawd, make it stop!; Black Books night with Pringles and wine
La Mia: your colors and light and scarves -- not just who you are, but that of yourself which you lent to others -- your wooden earrings and your hippie trousers (or were they rose's who cares that's half the charm) -- and being the one I slept with, and then the one I accidentally kicked out of bed, what with my vigorous sleeping; Biking past your window and looking up to see your refrigeratorables on the sills;
Hugging you in the in-progress porter's lodge, despite my biker's sweat; You leaving your door ever-unlocked for the greater good.
HT: Talking about your shoes' issues in the Wadham pub.
Most of you: HUMMUS.

Many people, much loved.

Even It Out

Part of me wants to avoid addressing this subject here; I am so much more, so much better than this. But right now (for so long!), it's the only thing on my mind:

I cannot remember the last time I had a meal when I enjoyed it and relaxed and ate and breathed and didn't examine its many facets, didn't analyze what it meant, what I must do or couldn't do or should do or had done to make it all "OK," to even out the numbers, to drink it away or throw it up or throw it away or anything.

Do people just eat? CAN people just eat? Is it simple for anyone?

Face Value

My life can easily and truthfully be taken at face value. Recently, if I've ever been the least bit upset, my mother has asked if there's anything else wrong than whatever triggered me (generally something pertaining to my father). I think she expects that some boy in my life is upsetting me or I am upsetting myself over some boy. That used to be an often-enough occurrence.

But that is not the case. These days, any upset is straightforward and simple. I am peacefully alone, and lonely in my peace. Instead of drama, I speak through my fingers, I breathe smoke and sea salt through my nose, I drink water and wine in one gulp. I live at face value.

Fine Art Photography

I want to be creative again. I'm going to buy film and make use of my camera, take it wherever I go, just as I did for the eight months after I got it. I was painfully disappointed to see the photos I took this winter, what with the few months of rusting in the artist department. I think in general, one is lucky to get a single good print out of a 24- or 36-print roll of film; I usually like three or four of mine because I am of the elementary mind. In the four rolls from the beginning of the year, I was lucky to choose one I thought was worthy of remark. This. Must. Change.

I think one part of the difficulty I find is that I prefer portraitism (I'm making up words again! Hooray!), but I don't see people anymore. Generally, I'm OK with not seeing people (I don't like people. Yes, that means you), but when it comes to my photography, I know that that's the closest I come to a forté.

Does this mean I have to be social again? I'm not sure I can afford that, financially or psychologically.

Day In

I know I've said this before, but I miss not caring. Not that my life is bad, but there's not much good, not much positive. Just day in and day out and droning on and feeling inadequate and alone.

I miss those times when I was happy. Even those times when I was unhappy -- there were good times then, too. Being around people and having the choice to be alone. Feeling like I was doing something every day, and when I was doing nothing, it wouldn't last. Cigarettes tasted better, sleep meant something, the wind in my hair as I biked home at two AM was real. Drinking because it was fun, not because it made me feel better. Not drinking because I was doing other things, not because I shouldn't. Eating because you need food to survive, not because I'm lonely or bored or angry. Throwing up because I'd drunk too much, not because I'm lonely or bored or angry. Being angry for a reason, not because there's nothing else to feel.

Mixology

Any combination of energy drinks, powders, and pills is a bad idea.

Denial

So, you know how people are always talking about how some folk use things like sex, drugs, and alcohol to deal with or cover up their feelings? I always thought that was a bit dramatic or exaggeratory, especially because no one ever said it about me. Over the past few days, though, I'm wondering if I should say it to myself. I've been drink-sober for a week now, and while I've done that before, it was always with the thought that "I'll have a drink next week, or when I go to NYC in two weeks." Now I'm planning to keep this sobriety thing going for a few months.

So, you know, there's more presence of mind and more emotional awareness (pssht, what is the point of these things?). For example, I got kinda sad when I saw an ex on FaceBook. We had a tumultuous relationship for a couple months while I was in Oxford, but when we broke up, I immediately slept with other people. (Very immediately.) And I've been drinking since then, too. And the entire time I was with him (as well as before and after) I was regularly coked up.

Also, to-day I was talking to one of my closest friends about her boyfriend and remembered that they lost their virginity to each other last year. It made my heart hurt, it made me wish I had had something special that first time, instead of the horror I had when I was 14.

So I'm not drinking and I'm not having sex (I've gained so much weight in the last year and can't really handle the idea of being naked around anyone, let alone comprehend that someone will want to be naked with me). So I'm, you know, feeling these things. And realizing that I used booze and sex and coke to not feel things.

And I want to go back to that easy, breezy, happy time, however oblivious I may have been.

Visitors

Oh, hey, Nostalgia, how're you doing? Gawd, I haven't seen you in ages, at least a week. It's so strange I used to hang out with you all the time. Well, cool, thanks for dropping by, I'm sure I'll see you soon.

What?

Oh, you're staying? Oh.

In That Case

My dad turned 74 to-day. I clean up after him as if he was seven years old. I resent him for that (and for the fact that to-morrow he will shout at me for throwing away last week's papers to-day).

I do feel a bit guilty that it took me till this afternoon to remember that to-day is his birthday. Then again, I don't remember him recalling mine for at least a few years. When I spend a moment thinking about it, I don't feel bad. What point is there to it? To feeling bad, to his birthday, to my notice of either.

Since I've changed the title of this blog it has become one about him, or about our relationship. I don't like that. I guess, however, that is the most striking part of my life right now.

In that case, happy birthday, daddy.

Potential

Struggling with life in general. Fighting cutturgeousity. Last time, the exposure of FT made it almost not worth it -- looking for BD to-night. Unhappy.

I feel like such a child, being all angsty in a blog, but what have I otherwise?

Maybe in a few hours this will morph into some creative writing. That's a best-case-scenario.

I Can Smell the Anger

It turns out I have special powers.

At Mother's Day/brother's birthday brunch this morning, I picked up on a sentence from my dad and immediately stiffened and got quiet. My brother said I was projecting or over-reacting and even called me passive aggressive, but within a moment, my dad was beginning the exact tired I had expected.

I can sense when he's about to be an ass moments before anyone else. I know before it happens when to disappear and/or have a glass of wine.

Not exactly a marketable skill, but great for self-protection.

Daddy's Girl

It's hard living with my dad again. In the 48 hours since his return to Los Angeles, he has angrily accused me of eating 2 cups of cottage cheese and drinking half a bottle of Chablis. Worse part: I did those things.

Worst, though? I keep crying. Like, all the time. About him, I mean. Just thinking about living with him again makes me short of breath. When I was in Israel and had to go on a bus with him in one of his manic moods, I had a certifiable panic attack. I wish I was exaggerating. Crying, anxiety, shortness of breath, sweating, shaking, etc.

So to-day, to live my own life and breathe my own breath, I went to the post office, had a job interview, did my weights, cleaned the kitchen some. Breathed my own air. (And some of Lucky Strikes' air). But even though I didn't see him most of that time, when he came home and I tried to deliver a phone message, I ended up breaking down:

Rina: "Hi, Daddy? Lily called, she said ..."
Him: "Who are you talking to?" (My mum was in the same room.)
Rina: "I'm telling you, Daddy, that Lily called ..."
And he walked away. Mid-sentence. When I was giving a message about his cousin who called because her sister had an emergency appendectomy. OHMIGAWD.

So then I returned to my room, cried, and had some more hydrocodone with chili liqueur chasers. WOOOO! (I become a "Woo! Girl" when Y Chilli is involved.)

PS Fingers crossed for that job interview, yeh?

Worst E-mail Evarr

And the award goes to my dad;

"hi m on my way hm. bering a gft"

It's funny how I am more irritated by him for this e-mail than if he hadn't sent one at all. In fact, I would have been pleased not to receive one. This one actually makes me angry. Like, great, the thought of you coming home will be looming like a piano on a weak rope over my head. And you think I want a GIFT from you? Like that will make me look forward to seeing you? What am I, four years old? And the last two gifts you gave me I regifted within days, if not hours. I don't like you. I don't want you to like me or try to get me to like you. Just go away.

I've started drinking again, and he's going to keep on pointing it out.

I've started drinking again.

False Advertising

To all winemakers: red wine with a 4% alcohol content is grape juice. Label it as such.

J-Town

I was really pleased when I looked up the street and saw a blazing red neon sign that read "TEQUILA." Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed that they did not sell any tequila. Or other hard liquor, or even wine and beer. In fact, I saw no beverages of any sort for sale in this shop called TEQUILA. Just shoes. Only in Israel, I say.

Also here: generic Barbie dolls are called, "Romantic Girl." Awww.

Overheard on Yaffa Street (where they're doing construction of railways, it appears):
Dad: They're doing that so you can get the train all the way down town.
Petulant 8-year-old boy: That is so pathetic.

Positive aspects to being here: handsome, uniformed, ogle-worthy young men.

Unliveable

This morning I got the rejection note from the NYC Teaching Fellowship. I knew it was coming; I knew since the middle of my interview evening at the start of March. (The interview process included a basic verbal and maths test, a fake be-a-teacher-thing, a discussion period, and a writing portion. I did well on everything, except the fake be-a-teacher-thing. You know, the most important thing.)

Anyway, it would have hurt more (before I edited this, I accidentally wrote "it would have heart more" -- hi, psychological slip!), but I was expecting it. Plus, I had already had a few drinks when I got the message. In any case, I didn't cry like I did when I got the rejection letter from the Mississippi Teaching Corps a few days ago. Instead I shouted "woohoo!" sarcastically and went for a drive with my cigarettes and Me First and the Gimmie Gimmies.

I leave for Israel to-night. (I'm going to stay at my brother's to-night because he lives near the airport, then going to the airport to-morrow.) I should be looking forward to it, but I'm facing a lot of time (3 weeks) with a lot a family (at least 10 people for most of that time). This includes holiday meals and don't-wear-trousers-around-my-easily-influenced-infant-WHO-CAN'T-TELL-THE-DIFFERENCE-BECAUSE-HE'S-AN-INFANT. Fuck you, brother-in-law.

I'm not looking forward to the next three weeks. or the next three years. Or the next three decades. There is not enough vodka on this planet to make the upcoming time liveable.

Things That Are Good

1. Driving. Oh my god, how did I NEVER like this before? Maybe it's better when you don't have someone in the passenger seat gasping and pressing their foot into the floorboards at every turn. My only experience that didn't include this included an ugly accident.

2. Getting paid. It has been so long since I last got paid It almost made the incessant filling and organizing of old files worthwhile. Almost.

3. Pint bottles of vodka. They're cute! And they fit in your purse!

4. Litre bottles of vodka. There's just so much to drink! And you can use them to refill the pint-size bottles. See (3).

5. Cheese. No explanation necessary.

Joy, At Last

I finally understand the logic (or lack thereof) of the joy ride.

I never, ever drive. NEVARR. Last time I drove I got into an accident on La Cienega that resulted in nearly $500 worth of damage. Thank god, that's not too much in the scheme of accidents-that-result-in-insurance-debates-and-the-eventual-outlay-of-money. Since then, though, I haven't been on the insurance, I haven't driven, and I haven't wanted to drive. Granted, most of that time I was in New York and driving was like, um, why? But still, there have been a number of weeks in LA, the City of Necessitated Driving.

Since my parents departed for Jerusalem last week, I have had to be at work on "The Westside"; while in theory, I was going to take the bus the drive (without traffic) takes 30 minutes, and the bus takes thrice as long. I wish I was exaggerating.

So I've driven. (Fates: don't you even dare. I will slit your throats. ALL OF YOU.)

So this joy ride feeling: I came home to-day and needed out, so I made up an excuse (to myself) to run an errand (Don't ask where. Fine, to the booze shop on Vista) with trashy "up" music playing. But that wasn't good enough. So I went around the block again with trashy 102.7FM music playing. It was satisfying.

OK, that was the lamest joy ride ever, but what I mean to say is I GET IT. And I WANT MORE.

Heal/Hail

I had an afternoon to-day with a friend of mine from high school. E is probably the only one from my graduating class (and many more classes before and after ours) with whom I can still connect. We spent four or so hours just enjoying each others' company and it was the first time I laughed authentically in weeks, if not longer.

Within an hour after her departure I was in emotional distress. No, "distress" is not the word. I was in this state of bland pain. Rather, painful blandness. I spent a few hours thinking to myself I was going mad with boredom (to some, that might be translated as "loneliness," but that is not quite what I felt, I think). I did crosswords and SuDoKu and caught up my celebrity gossip, but this "I'm going mad" feeling did not pass.

I nicked some wine from my parents' cupboard and things eased. Then I went out and bought some of my own. Things are much better now.

I pretend that I have recovered from my all-too-recent alcohol-as-a-crutch days, but if I have not, I am OK with that. It doesn't get in the way of family, friends, work, life, anything. It just makes all of these more easy to tolerate.

All hail!

Open Letter: LA

Dear Los Angeles,

I was warming up to you again (sort of), but to-day was quite disappointing. If you only bring the sun out at 4.oo pm, well, you can't expect me to be pleased. You do realize, of course, that the hope of getting some colour is the main reason I endure this situation.

Oh, Los Angeles, I know that was harsh. I just need to be honest if we're going to be in this "live together" relationship. I know that you're aware of how difficult you can be, and of how our dispositions don't match all too often. I know I can be difficult for you, too, what with the shit-talking I can do. Still, I love you. At least, I love some of the memories we share.

Listen, Los Angeles, I know I'm rambling. I'm sure you have as much difficulty dealing with me as I do with you. But please. Let's work together. If you can give me some good sun and sweet breezes (I know you have it in you; don't hold back to spite me), I will ask nothing else of you, and in return, I won't bad-mouth you at all.

Los Angeles, I know we have a lot of history and based on that we may never love each other the way we once did. But since we have to live together, let's be civil, if not sweet.

Much affection,
Rina

Golden Day

Two words for you, GRE: Suh. Kit.

I just rocked the exam. I even got to use the term "aetataureate delusion" in an essay. I win at life. For once.

Up. Down. Down.

Ah, I feel somewhat relieved to have one of my lies/absences of truth come to the open. I found out to-night that both my parents are well aware of my tattoo. I think I feel a bit happy about it, because they haven't ever been angry with me for it (as I assumed they would) and to-night they sort of mentioned it in passing.

Apparently my mother has known about it for not-quite-a-year, and I'd assume the same from my father. I kind of like that I had a year's "head start," or whatever.

I kind of wish they didn't know. I liked t better that way. Even so, since they do know, I'm pleased that they've handled it so well. First time for everything!

PS Fuck. While I've been writing this they've started yelling at each other again. It was too good to last. Ten minutes of civility, even friendliness, and it's over.

Hot and Sunny and Dry-Eyed

Oh, to-day is so much better. I haven't cried once, and it's already 5.oopm. (I did get kind of chokey over a fitness magazine that came in the mail, though.)

Been doing a bit of revision for my GREs, working on the essays for my application, and have picked up plenty of wine and beer to hold me clear over the next couple of days. The sun has been shining all day and I had a good walk around in it for an hour or two and I think! I'm picking up! Some color! That's the sole thing about LA I enjoy. Not the weather as much as the not-pasty-arms-and-face. Also been re-enjoying a CD my half-brother sent me a month or two ago, The Beautiful South's best-of album. My laptop charger's death didn't even make me break down, although it means I'm laptop-less at the mo'.

So: Hope. Change. In the air. And this has nothing to do with Obama. This has to do with me and my sense of self-efficacy. Back on track.

PS Thank fuck.

Slow Sunday

Things I should be doing:
*Practicing for my GRE exam, which is on Wednesday
*Working on the essays for my Mississippi Teaching Corps application, which is due Tuesday
*Applying to part-time or temp jobs
*Working on a number of other teaching fellowship applications

Things I am doing:
*Trying to decide if I can afford to buy a six-pack of Beck's
*Going through the Harry Potter series again
*Crying

This Town's Best Mess

I know, logically, intellectually, what a beautifully easy life I have. It's hard to see it sometimes, though.

*phone rings once*
H (standing near the phone cradle, but handling raw chicken) (angrily): Somebody answer the phone!
R walks to the cradle, broom and dustpan in hand.
R (quietly): The phone's not in the cradle. You had it last, didn't you?
*phone continues ringing*
H (shouting): Well, it's in the OFFICE!
(the office is in the detached garage, through the house and across the backyard)
R (agitated): I'm not running out there to answer your phone just because you left --
H (screaming): WELL, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!
*phone stops ringing*

I've never been a crier. Over the past year I've probably cried a total of 5 times, and that time-frame includes a painful break-up, a rape at the hands of someone I loved, leaving Oxford, and a period of total social ostracization. But over the past week I find myself crying nearly every day. And sure, sometimes it's about my lack of a future, my not having a job, my nonexistent sense of self-efficacy, but most often it's about Him.

It tires me out, this crying thing.

Logic

Only my father could take my not drinking as proof of alcoholism.

Clever Tactics

Putting out the most handsome men on the planet to stump for your causes, like Greenpeace and Save the Children.

Call me, Alex!

Translations

What "I am not talking to you" does not mean:

-Please, continue talking to me at an increasing volume, despite the fact that I have positioned my laptop directly between our faces and I have my headphones in my ears. I am, in fact, listening attentively, contrary to how it might seem.

-Keep this up and you'll definitely win my affection and support, and I'd be happy to do all the menial chores you can't be fucked to do yourself.

-I love you, Daddy.

High School Again

I'm living at my folks place with no forseeable change in the matter, so I am going to resort to blogging again. Venti-size (get it? VENTIng? Ha!). It's childish and silly, but being as Alone as I Am in Los Angeles, I have few other options while I wait to be rejected when I seek job after job, fellowship after fellowship, and sense of accomplishment after sense of accomplishment.

To update: I graduated uni in December 2008 and have snce been job-hunting and traveling, with more of the same to come. I didn't apply to graduate schools because I was hoping (expecting?) to get one of a couple teaching fellowships for the fall, but have since been alerted that I am not qualified to do much besides drink wine, eat cheese, and smoke Luckies.

I'm living with my folks in Los Angeles (not having a job = not able to pay rent in NYC like I did for the first month out of uni). My close friends are 7500 miles away, and most everyone else is still in uni. As most people know LA is not my ideal place for, you know, breathing or living or anything, but here I am. Bitter. So I'm going to vent just like I used to in high school, on an Angsty Blog. It's appropriate since I'm living in my high school bedroom again, right?

I have hope (however weak) that the angst will peter out as apply for more jobs and fellowships and teaching programs. I'll have to bear with myself till then.