Thursday, October 1, 2009

Siiiickk broooooo

Nobody likes a girl with the flu.

My roommates avoid me at all cost. When I bless them after they sneeze, the scowl at me like I maliciously made them do so. I'm dazed and high off cough syrup in the living room, researching for a design project, and they are on the other side of the house, doors shut. I feel like I slept with one of their boyfriends or something, like getting the flu was some sort of venial sin.

My penance is an infinite amount of deep coughing, two running nostrils, and one spinning head.

This is the longest I've ever been in my particle wood home. I usually try to avoid it because its small dimensions and perpetual mess always makes me feel really anxious. But here I am, cast into exile in the cardboard box with no windows or cable. It reminds me of the home my aunt used to live in Santa Monica. I used to drink Nesquick and play on her computer and stare at the way the coastal sun slotted through her cracked blinds. It was always sunny in Santa Monica and its sunny right now in Pacific Beach.

I slapped the man who told me the surf was good. Not really, because he texted it to me, and I probably wouldn't have slapped him if we were in person. But if this were some tale from the Middle Ages, I would have challenged him to a duel for sure.

I guess there's one way to get waves: tell everyone I have the flu and am extremely contagious. Mwahahahaha.

I watched Amelie yesterday and it made me want to wear some crazy Euro outfit and make pastries and play with dominoes in the sunshine on grass somewhere. But then I hacked up a lung so I just read my book in my bed. (Rensin's "All for a few perfect waves," incase you were wondering).

This house isn't so bad with the blinds open and some crisps fall air seeping through the uninsulated walls. I can hear some SD birds chirping and the hum from some archaic appliance, but that's it. Solitude makes any setting more bearable.

Something tells me I'm going to draw a lot today...or sip more Tussin and see what rambling I can come up with. I should probably get high off that stuff before the two restaurant reviews I have to do tonight anyways.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Bringing the heat in the library

The guy over my left shoulder totally saw me taking this unattractive picture of me on Photo Booth and probably thinks I'm such a goon haha.

Yeah, I haven't washed my hair in two days. Its salty. It looks rad. My eyebrows and bleached out into oblivion.

You know that feeling your skin gets when you were sweating heavily not too long ago, but now you are in an air conditioned room? It's sort of filmy...ya know? And you know how when you have been under artificial light for so long, your perception of things around you becomes completely flattened and your depth perception is shot? Does that happen to you? The world becomes completely two dimensional after awhile and I feel separated from everything around me. Arms hover in front of my and peck away at my key board and research on the internet, but my self is completely sedated from the light. It's like my self checked out or something.

Anyways, that's how I feel right now and I'm about to research schizophrenia so I can draw something about the powerlessness of having it. With my hair looking like this, and feeling like that. God damn.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

For Faith

It's 6:30 on a Sunday morning, and I am frothing between my sheets for the four-foot a-frame, empty peaks I have been promised to surf this morning around 7. I feel like how I did when I was five on Christmas morning, waiting for my parents to wake up so I could attack my stocking. And that's stupid. That's really really stupid.

The silver glow of early morning coastal sunshine is seeping through my window coyly. And I'm in bed with the eerie white glow of technology shining awkward shadows of my face from my glasses.

I met a boy who said he wanted to get the Gonzo tattoo in a jacuzzi last night, before he even saw mine. I think we are getting dinner on Wednesday night (Eh, maybe). Might as well see was this seemingly well-read bro has to offer me.

I went to the Surfer Magazine Video Poll Awards and watched beautiful people strut around like they have all had their own E True Hollywood Story, but they were all just surfers. Whaaatever. Beautiful people are just intimidating. Those glowing tans and asymmetrical haircuts just make me feel like they are in on some greater concept of reality I can't fathom because my midsection jiggles and I have acne: FAME.

I surf too much. It's like a god damned drug. It's not a romantic ideal. It's waking me up at 6 in the morning. It keeps me from doing my homework or seeing friends. It gives me cancer and unattractively shapely arms. It makes me not go out at night and opt for falling asleep early. Roxy and Holister making all those sexy ads is just a fluke. It's like tobacco company ads. They should be sued. They are trying to ruin the wholesome lives of all those landlocked children.

"Yes, yes, buys these boardshorts sweet child. Get this board. Hm, yes...."

Surfing definitely does suck and you certainly shouldn't try it.

Fuck man, and I'm a god damned LONGBOARDER.

Time for cereal my friends. I'll try to update this thing more regularly, for Faith if no one else.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

S the D

There is nothing like drunkards in the morning...two in the my house...screaming.

I hate being angry and lying in bed.

The coffee I'm drinking is from the 99 cent store.

The most delicious thing in my fridge is store brand yogurt. I had a dream it was Trader Joe's organic fat free yogurt, but alas.

I have decided that all men are god awful and conniving until proven otherwise. I have unknowingly danced through and upon snake pits but this sharp panging had me look down and realize I'm surrounded by men that want nothing other than to detach their jaws and eat me whole.
One of them spit me out due to mental malfunctions (Thank the heavens!), but I'll be damned if his friends didn't SMELL the defeat and slither their way up to me with befanged smiles.
Fuck em. Fuck all of em. I'm joining the agnostic nunnery.

I was watching a compilation of Smiths music videos yesterday, as any good LA child will do from time to time, and realized that I wish I was a gay man just so I could dress like Morrissey. I think I'm still going to swing bouquets of flowers regularly though.

You never know who is going to read this. Maybe a snake, maybe a drunkard....This could be some girl interrupted shit. Everyone assigns such authority to the written word and I am a con artist.

I have cramps bye.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Being a modern woman blooooows

There is an orange glow in the valley today, like when there were fires in the 805 and the smoke was choking the sun. But there are no fires, just that weird deep tint that makes me feel like something horrible is happening somewhere and I'm just driving around, laa dee daa.

There are spider webs all in my front yard. I wish that was some sort of metaphor, but its true; there are actually big ass arachnids all over the god damned place and it makes walking to the front door very nerve racking. I scream and dance my way to the porch. The neighbors love me.

I'm going to utilize bullet points for why it blows to be a modern woman:

-I surf and I break out from the sun exposure and sunscreen combo
-They gave me pills for this problem
-The pills not only make my birth control not work, but supposedly make me lose my "libido" (I just feel like that should be in quotes) as well as make me really sensitive to sunlight.
-Yeah, this is the reason I break out in the first place. I just trust the old man that prescribed them to me
-I still take the birth control in vain, and the OBGYN assures me it will work anyways...questionable.
-I ask about that crazy ring thing you shove in your vag and he tells me to tests have been done to see if the pills for my face will upset it's effectiveness. Helpful.
-OBGYN mentions I need to get tested for STDs and that the doctor that did my last pap didn't do it (even though he told me he did)
-That same doctor also refuses to refill my birth control because I haven't seen him in over a year, but I can remember the evasiveness of that pap so vividly I could swear it was six months ago. In fact, thats what I told the nurse when she asked.

God damnit! I just want clear skin and to not get pregnant! Sweet Jesus almighty! What concoction of chemicals do I have to ingest to make that happen! Nobody knows! I spent $25 to learn nothing and not get my prescription.

Where does a guy get off on being on being a vag doctor anyways...

I can only hope I'm STD free, my acne will go away and I wont end up with a fetus in my gut on the way.

Thursday, August 6, 2009


My accomplice and I brushed the sand of our feet and wiped the salt off our skin long enough to endure some silly conversations at a Malibuite gathering.

Get ready for a doozy: 

The house looked more like the lounge of a five-star hotel than anything else, nestled in the hills of Malibu and walking distance from a private wave. Chumash-old trees littered their rolling backyard, standing guard of the toys laying about for their over-privileged children. It was strange to me that any child that hasn't done anything with their life could call this orgasm of location and design "home."  And even beyond that, almost every child who attends Malibu High School has a ridiculous house like this one to call "home," I realized at that moment. All those kids that stroll into the shop and ask for a discount live in places like this...

I was still trying to comprehend the amount of artwork and glass walls when my attention shifted to the people that were filling the place. It was a photographer's slideshow that had been supported by the man I had some some work for and listened to.  It was a gathering of social masturbation and contrived artistic knowledgeability that wasn't nearly as bad as I just made it sound. 

My accomplice lives in Malibu and actually knew some of the faces that were hovering about the bar and patio, looking beautiful and streamlined.  With her help of introduction, I morphed into an amoeba of conversing women. I was introduced to each with a handshake and a smile. 

I started off talking to a woman named Jill who wasn't sure about my "You can call me whatever you want" joke when she asked if I preferred being called Pati or Patricia.  

Next I met her goofy looking husband Matt, who I found out was Matt Rapf, the most successful Malibu/Topanga real estate agent in the area. I had just read an excerpt of his book that my boss had helped him with in Surfer's Journal. I complemented him on it and made the millionaire smile.  The face of a man who knows no economic hardships, who was raised in the Malibu Colony, the stoic face of luxury that I've always blamed my own hardships as well as the hardships of all suffering peoples, (the fat cats that don't donate the cost of their fifth Hummer to a charity) smiled at my compliment. 

I was surrounded by glistening the faces that walk into Becker and that I have never said anything to other than "Can I help you find anything today?" Now here I was, with brushed hair, make up, and a cute dress, making Matt Rapf smile. 

My accomplice disappeared into some other amoebic conversation glob. It was just me and Mrs.Rapf (Jill). The some bitchy emaciated woman walked over and stole the conversation we were having about how she raises her own children in a land of nanny-reared brats. She started talking about people and places I didn't know. Jill introduced me, but the skinny lady's face blatantly let me know she didn't care. As the bitch drawled on and on about acquaintances, Jill's eyes drifted about like that of a disengaged drunk. 

Oh my gosh! Then the lady whose name I can't remember walked up. First I found out she lived in China, then I found out she lived in West Africa before that, then it came out her husband was in the oil industry, and then I found out this very nice woman's husband was the ecologist for Chevron. Whether she realizes it or not, her husband is supposed to protect the environment and population of the places his company drills in. But Chevron did such a poor job in West Africa I read about it in Don Cheadle's book. She wanted to talk more about her new female driver in China than her husbands job, but I pried...

She seemed to disregard the environment argument as irrelevant, since it takes oil to manufacture alternative energy. And the oil preserves in the earth are almost tapped out. She told me everything capitalist society provides for us would collapse and we would all have to do our own farming. Lets not even think about the countries that make their money by feeding other countries. She spoke of all this with a sway, swinging her glass of wine around and waving her finger, finding each conversational point on some invisible outline in front of her. She had wide eyes and a small voice that was funny in comparison to her massive fake breasts.  She and I went on and on, excluding the skinny bitch. The the slide show started and I didn't speak to her again. 

After the show I was introduced to John Stockwell, director of Blue Crush. He had the same drunken eye-wandering as he swayed, cocked his head back, and told me a thing or two about college, careers, and life. Most people would write down whatever a Harvard graduate and successful movie director had to say about life, but at the moment, he was just a drunk kook that was hitting on every little girl in the place. (When I asked him where he went to school, he said "Oh, I went to Harvard" quickly, like I already knew and he was just reminding me.) I found out the skinny bitch was his wife and The Chevron ecologist was his brother. What an interwoven community of exceeding wealth!

I was seeing the side of Malibu I had always heard existed, the faces behind the tinted windows of the Escalades, and the parents of the children that come into the shop with their Asian nannies. Malibu suddenly changed. It was more than a sun-bleached point, a surf shop, and a Jack N The Box. I felt like my career was hiding somewhere in this economically over-stimulated community where millionaires readily blush when some one complements them on their book that some one else wrote for them. Why, I can be that some one else! And every kook looks up to some one that can noseride! Shit, I can con them all! I'm that blond they see at Becker that surfs the point. Oh, she's a journalist? Well, I've always wanted to write a book about how rich I am!

Yes, somewhere in the land of mansions of hills and coast and money, my career is hiding. 

So many kooks to take advantage of!

Bloggers Note: I'm sure all the wealthy people I just spoke of are very nice people. But I couldn't tell you, I didn't really meet them; I shmoozed with them. 

Monday, July 27, 2009

Salt Encrusted

Here I am, Patricia, typing out my Haphazard Meanderings to you, nonexistent reader. 
I haven't washed my hair since Friday. Today is Monday.

So is the life a young girl leads when she surrounds herself with males who obtain different priorities than that of the average female. 

I got my nails done with my mom last week (its supposed to be mother daughter bonding, but we sit on opposite sides of the room and don't talk while me get simultaneously rubbed by Vietnamese women), and they are already chipped into oblivion. Instead of feeling like a more feminine version of myself, I feel like a twelve-year-old little girl that can't stay off the jungle gym long enough to let her sparkly pink nail polish dry. 

John is still asleep. So here I be. 

We spent the weekend in Ventura with a nice man named Zeph who shapes some pretty functional surfing devices (maybe you've heard of him). We ate his non-wife's enchilada's, wrestled with his three-year-old, surfed knee-high Rincon, and get aggravated at overhead C Street. 

My biceps are still sore from frantically trying to duck dive my 6'6" fish that floats me like a high performance longboard as headhigh white wash come thundering at me. Than I watched the men boogie womp at Oxnard shores on the same peak I watched a man break his board in four different places. I ran to the water and saved his now ruined board for him. 

When he got to me he said, "Wow, that's the worst break I've ever seen."
He didn't seem to think that was appropriate. 
The thing was cracked right along side of the stringer and creased in about four different places. Congratulations where definitely in order. 

Then John got into a fight at Malibu.