Patricia's Haphazard Meanderings

Siiiickk broooooo

2009-10-01T08:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Bringing the heat in the library

2009-09-24T13:14:00.000-07:00

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.

For Faith

2009-09-20T06:31:00.000-07:00

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.

S the D

2009-09-02T07:11:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like drunkards in the morning...two in the morning...in 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.

Being a modern woman blooooows

2009-08-13T10:41:00.001-07:00

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.

Shmoozing

2009-08-06T17:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Salt Encrusted

2009-07-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

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."

"Congratulations!"

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.

This is where I work:

2009-07-19T09:39:00.001-07:00

This is Becker Surf & Sport in Malibu. I have been working there and riding their boards since I was 16-years-old. Its a fun little shop, the management has changed a few times, faces come and go, no big deal. One summer I tried to be high and mighty and get a job somewhere else (GUESS?), and it backfired in my face in a big corporate explosion that left me sputtering out types of denim and bad acne from wearing so much make up.

But now I'm back at Becker.

And let me tell YOU something about being a girl in a surf shop. Not matter how many times those shoppers have seen you surfing at the beach out back, they DO NOT care what you have to say about anything surf related. So many times some one has come up to me:

"Hey, I have some questions about surfboards."

"Alright."

"Um..."

"I can help you."

They give me a quick scan up and down, making sure I'm a young woman like they suspect. The wince and say, "I'll just wait for Mitch."

Alright, I'm just going to go but on my hibiscus flower embroidered Roxy dress and brush my hair in the corner, kay?

But yesterday was different.

An older gentleman came in looking for a longboard, my fifth limb. I walked him back to the boards, listened to what he wanted, discussed with him the perks of each model, and ended up writing him up for a custom 10'6" San O model. My name was on the slip and everything. We talked rails, thickness, paddle, noseride, and he believed every word I had to say.

He mentioned how he has seen me out in the line up before. The man respected me as a surfer, and thusly a woman.

Sexism is slowly fading the surf world my friends. Let it ring from every point.

I have finally emerged

2009-07-12T11:30:00.000-07:00

^ Me being an aquatic beast who stalks in the deep and flops around in the sand. A sunburned zombie who wastes all of her time being getting salty and is a carcass of a conversation when she actually has to wear her land legs.

I can't used the word "rape," because all of that was consensual.

Three weeks later: my eyes are permanently bloodshot and refuse to wear my contact lenses. My scalp is peeling. My feet are covered in sand flea bites. My skin is dried and starting to wrinkle. I have massive neoprene induced growths in my skin that yield to no medication. My arms look like that of a built pre-teen boy. I haven't seen anyone outside of the ocean. I'm broke.

Summers are usually an array of nights out, stranger's couches (sometimes their beds), hangovers, dazed at work, new acquaintances you'll lose in the fall, and all the rest of it.

But as every summer, this one is different. I've kept my head down and diligently paddled out towards the horizon time and time again, for hours and days on end. New boards, new waves.

Ya know when you say a word too much, and it doesn't make sense any more? I swear you can do something enough and have the same effect. My mind is a scramble of trim and sections and cross-steps and head dips and set waves and duck dives and its all a blur that my mind cannot comprehend.

The other day a man paddled up to me to compliment me on my last waves and I couldn't remember it. In the zone or zoned out.

I come home exhausted and fall asleep by ten so I can wake up early, rinse and repeat.

Surfing is a hell of a drug my friends, and I haven't lifted my head up from that glassy surface in quite sometime. I think I need to spend time with my family or something.

I would update the internet on long distance monogamy, but I have no idea who I am.

Sandals & Spectacles

2009-06-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

Today was the first day in about a week I finally looked in a mirror.
In a whirlwind of two to three hour existence sessions in the ocean, passing out in the backs of cars, talking shit in the sand, rinsing and repeating, there isn't time of mirrors.
I'm wearing make up and all the rest of it (brushed hair and expensive jeans), but my eyes are still bloodshot from the salty UV raping that comes along with general coastal bliss.
I'm wearing glasses to try to heal/hide them, but I'm almost positive I just look stoned.
Clear eyes ain't got shit the ocean's wrath.

I feel like a fish out of water (sputtering and flopping in a tide pool) with my sunburn chaffing underneath my previously mentioned expensive jeans. My sore shoulders feel like they are bulging out of this fitted blouse.
Patricia v. the cube: round III

My disbelief that proofreading for eight hours will get me anywhere in my career oriented sense of reality (half-assed as it is), is being reflected in the beat up sandals I've decided are acceptable to wear.

My weekend was a over exposed old photograph, stained with nostalgic sunshine and caked in salt, left in the sand. I've acquired tan lines, scabs, and the fleeting memories of getting solid fives down the line and legit head dips on the inside.
I'd much rather have my scabbed toes get rubbed raw on the kneed paddle back up the point, my contact adorning eyes feeling like they just got lemon squeezed in them from the salt and sun overdose, than be reclining in this office chair.
Bleached blond and sunburned in front of a computer.

I day dream of the wise sages who hang with innate ease through steep sections, doing nothing but strolling above forests of cobble stone and seaweed. And then I wake up and type.

My sense of reality has been morphed into peeling lines and an over concern of how I hold my arms. It isn't real. But today is.

Reporting from the cubicle

2009-06-09T14:53:00.001-07:00

I'm going to do it; I'm going to hang myself with the mouse chord.

No, no I'm not.
I'm going to type this blog until my boss walks by. THEN, I will jump in my bewheeled office chair, my palms will get sweaty, and I'll most likely have a very suspicious look on my face. I am SCARED that they will take this opportunity away from me.

IF HE SEES ME, I WON'T BE ABLE TO FIX TYPOS FOR EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT! I am living on the proverbial edge my friends, risking my luxurious internship to report to you, from my cubicle. I'm such a journalist.....hm.

Its not all so bad, Oingo Boingo just came on the radio. Anytime a good song comes on, like this one ("Just Another Day") I rock back-and-forth in my fancy chair (that I stole from another desk) to the rythm and swivel side-to-side to the melody. The left corner of my cubicle is camera one and the right corner is camera two. I energetically lipsing to my cameras in time with the changes in the song, begging for some one to glance over at me [attention! attention! give it to me!] and maybe giggle, even furrow their brows in confusion. But alas, I am alone in my cubicle and no cares that Danny Elfman is a musical genius and I know all the words.

You should see me when Queen comes on. You really should.

But these lights really do a number on my brain. Everything around me gets all bland and flat; extenstion chords are phones are framed pictures are dwarfed walls are post-its are printers. It all looks the same [in this light].

I made a joke to my boss that he should pay me. He nervous glanced at the woman in the cubicle next to me and walked away. He was "not amused."

Ooohhhh fuck it, how do I unhook this mouse....

It has finally happened.

2009-06-02T18:04:00.000-07:00

I spend my days with my existence bordered by two-and-a-half carpeted dwarfed walls. A mechanical glow is cast on my young face for eight hours straight daily. They keep the blinds closed, not that the view of the array of strip malls stretched out in an expanse of cement is any sort of salvation from my damned perch. But I would just like to know if the morning clouds have burned off or not.

I spend these calculated hours proofing websites and designing logos. I'm mastering the technology that defines my generation. Its great, just great.

My boss has an Australian accent that seems to be created by the bouncing of his big jowls and the sole purpose for his nose hair and unkempt mustache.

The lady at the desk next to me wore a bolo tie today.

The staff writer (who I envy) has the voice of a muppet, which is only extra funny with the way her glasses magnify her eyes against her mousy face.

I introduced myself to the editor of Art Ltd. Magazine today. He hardly shook my hand and laughed like it was funny I was even talking.

So these days, these days remind me that I need to fucking write more. I have got this sinking suspicion that making sure all the umlauts and on all those crazy artists' names aren't turning out all fucked with html code isn't going to land me a job as an art journalist one day.

So I rot and cry in this office from nine to five, the contrast of what I want to do with what I don't so palpable it makes me angry, and I think about how I need to start writing more. So I come home, and wouldn't you know it, I'm paralyzed with defeat and general exhaustion to the point that all I can do is drink a Heffeweizen or two and watch TV.

I AM A MISERABLE MIDDLE CLASS AMERICAN AT THE AGE OF TWENTY.

The fact that I'm not even getting paid makes me relate to all those poor souls taking it hard with the economical shit show even more.

Sitting in that stagnant office with some classic soft rock drifting from old bargain speakers, sifting through pages and pages of electronic text makes my skin crawl with the anxiety of imminent loss.

I can't tell if this cubicle is a white flag to all the is free will or the price I'm paying so I'll have it forever one day.

From the wee hours

2009-05-25T01:38:00.001-07:00

I can't sleep.

I was just in a borderline stranger's living room falling asleep on the couch watching "Planet Earth" and now I'm buzzing with energy in my own sheets. Inconvenient.

I realized it was summer today on my run when an ice cream truck inched by and thensprinklers simultaneously turned on to water the lawns decorated with American flags. Oh summer in suburbia; can't wait.

I was sitting on a roof the other day, one of those nice paneled ones, staring at the surrounding culdesaqs (eh?) of the neighborhood, waiting to go to a BBQ, and it was also then that I felt a little hint of summer.

Deary me, maybe am I tired. I have been thriving on beer and burritos as of late and fear that I am becoming a Mission Beach wench with too much tan and beer gut. I think I'll get the butterfly tattoo tomorrow. It'll be cute, so it's chill, ya know?...platform sandals?

I want to quit drinking for awhile but I've already done coffee and cigarettes and I don't think this week is the best to try the trifecta of sobriety; my first and perhaps last week of living in San Diego with not a damn thing to do other than get into trouble. I'm right on schedule thus far.

Sorry, no picture today.

A Success Story

2009-05-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

So many times in my life I have seen toilet-side scribbled conversations.

One time I tried to start one in high school. I forget exactly what it was about, but it was some debate about whether ignorance is really bliss or not. Not exactly toilet-side reading material. Failure.

But ladies and gentlemen, I had my first success in one of the stalls on San Diego State University's beautiful campus.

All over the bathrooms (or at least the women's ones) there are these eco-hippie-stickers reminding you that the paper products you are utilizing in your bathroom adventure come from trees.

One of these little bastards was placed on a toilet paper dispenser; my in.

I had thought my response to the sticker a handful of times, but on one fateful day I had a pen accompanying me on my journey to the bathroom, for whatever reason. I scrolled the words "What did you want me to wipe with" in sloppy and glorious letters across the sticker, consequently opening a can of jovial and humors peanut gallery worms.

I am so proud of the female population of my school, chiming in with such answers as "tofu" or "banana leaves". Six different girls fished around in their purses to find a pen while they were peeing because of my little comment.

I am so happy.

A Glimpse into Longboard Culture

2009-05-18T09:57:00.000-07:00

This basically sums of the core behind any group of surfing friends; tight-knit scraggly hooligans whose bold lust for surfing makes them appear to be grounded in something, but really we are all willy nilly and our lives change directions with the swells. And there is nothing grounded about that, my friends.

I first felt this bond in Malibu with my surfing friends there. We party together, spit game at tourists together, surf, bask in the sunlight, break laws, and intimidate those bastards that used to make fun of us in high school.

Now I'm in San Diego and I have found a parallel universe; a surfing family not unlike my own other than the fact that it is not my own. All the other transient college surfer girls have already been picked off and coupled up with one of those locals boys (who are really more like men). Oh but alas, cursed maturity, I know better. I know that such placement would make me one of the broads that stands on the side of the pictures just to look pretty but gets not real respect other than being mostly cool and giving good head.

(especially since pure attraction does not guide me to any of their beds)

Its an odd social construct, the surfing community, especially when you are in your hormonal twenties. Its a lot like this:

That lust for longboard nostalgia and basic aesthetic pleasantries. But I have never been the type of hussie to get paired off for the sake of being in with the group. However stunting this may be to my social growth, I did it back home and I'll do it here.

Beer Gut Confidential

2009-05-17T10:03:00.001-07:00

I love me some fuckin' coffee, friends.

I think "Beer Gut Confidential" should be the name of this blog. I'm realizing I have lost all self regard in this college town. I can spend hours starting in the mirror and pinching my soft sides, but I'll be damned if I don't have at least a few beers if they were to come around.

I can tell myself I'll stop drinking coffee, smoking, slamming back beers like its making me money, start studying for finals, and maybe go on a diet....but I won't do any of those things. Maybe smoking though...

I'm just living that college dream; to live in a land of excess and have it be normal. To not have to really worry about your physical appearance, because you know some one somewhere will sleep with you. To have your GPA be a mere side dish to your beer pong technique and to check the waves before you check how much homework you have.

I am fat and lazy.

Mind beaten into a pulp by the countless carbonated hours and binge

but no purge.

It doesn't look good on me

This cloak of bloat and listlessness

This haze of content confussion

There is less ambition in this town then there are men that speak the truth

Women for that matter too

hormonal psychopaths

frantically spewing out whatever they can think of

Just to hump like ungraceful animals later

and to feel unsatisfied and alone in the morning

but by all means,

LIE LIE LIE.

I couldn't tell you anything about my biology final

But I can feed you a line or two.

& I don't like it.

Supposed to be a calm night

2009-05-16T08:48:00.000-07:00

, so I army crawl back into the bedroom to retrieve my shoes and other lost items of clothing while they were still on the bed, doing what it is drunk children do.

I went into the bathroom, giggling by myself, the low grunts and groans of my success coming through the wall.

The most direct matchmaker I am, most direct...

I held my keys in my hand, one key sticking out from each finger, and charged home with heavy drunken steps. I passed where I had laid down on the sidewalk, and where a chunk of my hair was detached from my head. I passed where I was supposed to meet a different group of friends earlier that night for booze and bowling. I wonder where the night would have gone had I opted to get drunk and periodically stand up to throw a ball at some pins with some SD locs. They surf well but they shoot guns. Things probably would have gotten creepy.

I remember, earlier in than night, I had already taken out my contact and was sipping a latte and smoking a cigarette with my friend, pondering my pillow after a long day of laying in the sun and playing hormonal and verbal games with those gun slinging surfer boys/men/creatures.

Oh tongue-tied mayhem that is flirtation. I barely knew the guy and he told me about how he thought he was a father for three years until his then ex-girlfriend told him it wasn't his. I don't know why he told me that story.

Anywho, I don't like guns.

Pre************* Syndrome

2009-05-12T19:36:00.000-07:00

Oh picturesque San Diego with your cloudless skies, blossoming roses, sparkling waves and rattling box kits that set off the alarms of parked cars...

Oh overcast view from my silent patio, exhaling smoke into the shaking leaves and onto the shingled roofs of my suburban neighbors.

Oh finals weeks, so close but so far; staring me in the face, but wearing a mask. I know you are looking in my direction, but your expression is just so hard to read.

I have so much to worry about and so many people to rely on. People always seem to let me down, heart aside, having my living situation, GPA, etc in the hands of some unprofessional hooligans is just a little unnerving as I stare at my inbox and hope that some one in the world is decent.

Does the constant motif of my love life make this blog:

A. weaker, because there are sooo much more importance in this world.

B. stronger, because being aware of this sort of thing is a defining characteristic of what it means to be a woman in her early twenties.

Discuss amongst yourselves.

2009-05-09T11:55:00.000-07:00

Ever since Cinco de Mayo, I smell tequila everywhere. It usually haunts menthol cigarettes, my body wash, salsa, and ocean wind. I don't know...

I spent that night listening to what expired frat guys had to say about how boys lay some deep lies on a girl to get her into bed. I started the conversation (OBVIOUSLY), but these men went at for a good two hours. They outlines the historical progression of pick up lines since their four, five, six, seven years in college. It became a science of lies and let downs and I'm not sure if I learned anything that night other than its always been my own fault for gobbling down a fresh batch of "you're one of the coolest girls I've ever met" lies.

I sliced my finger open with a razor blade the other week and have been playing with charcoal ever since. I hope it heals with the charcoal still in it so I can have a cool black line across my finger.

I'm going to go stroll the PB boardwalk (I carry the weight of this house on my eyelids. I cannot stay awake or motivated) and take some pictures for no real reason. But do they ever?

I wrote an article about emoticons. I'm going down hill at the age of 20.

Aztec Night

2009-05-03T14:45:00.001-07:00

I'm pretty sure I would have gotten my ass kicked by some coked out sorority girl if I didn't look like such a dyke that night.

My usual attire of skinny jeans, tee, cardigan, and tennies was butchly amplified with a SD bro hat I commandeered from one of the boys I was roaming around this that evening. He felt it was killing his game so I told him I'd wear it. Keystone helped me make the decision. I looked like I searched out the vag for fun and it was a nice way to be able to lead my night without having to deal with the unsuccessful pick up lines of SDSU's finest assholes.

I am at my happiest when surrounded by boys that aren't trying to get into my ill-fitting jeans. I like to wrestle (fully clothed), drink forties, and dance to fat boy slim in a way that beckons to my aunt in her jazzercise class. And you know what folks, thats exactly what I did Friday night.

I've come back from the dark abyss covered in bruises, bloated, and unable to hold the same thought for any considerable amount of time. You could say "fried"...sure.

I hate the games that hover around casual dating. What's casual dating anyways? Is it what I'm doing? Because I don't like it. Its full of false pretenses and my over analytical mind is just going to fucking explode if I get fed one more line. Homeboy, I already slept with you, would you stop fucking saying shit if you aren't going to call me in the next week?

When I say things like this it leads me to wonder who reads this. My girlfriends hear it from me all the time regardless, so I'm not worried about them. But what if the mentioned casual dater sees me talking shit on his sluggish game? What if some heartbreaker who feels like he has the authority to judge me at this juncture in my life decides to label me something that starts with S and rhymes with "rut"?

Well, I'm trusting that neither of those characters are letting their eyes pour over my over-caffeinated and under-slept rambling, and even if they were...

HI ANGELA.

Thursday night with Pat & Ang

2009-05-01T16:09:00.000-07:00

This is my friend Angela.

She and I spent last night sipping margars and gabbing away. I remember so very little of what we were talking about, but I feel like it was heavy and scratched the surface of some infinite abyss of knowledge.

We hadn't seen each other in two weeks (life...) and spent the cool San Diego night on my balcony talking about all the sorts of things you can talk about with very few people & all the things that would make any of my guy friends what to slice their wrists with a Chargers sticker.

We belly laughed and dissected the intricacies of text messaging, sexism, failure, music, & tequila.

Let me fill you in...

2009-04-27T08:17:00.001-07:00

The life of a college girl leads her to believe the lies of men that she doesn't know. It leads her to what she was taught is vulnerability and to smoking cigarettes and a stranger's patio thinking everything is as it should be.

There are a few choice words that get a college girl into this position:

-cute

-sexy

-beautiful

-cool

Used in the proper context, you too can have your own personal college girl smoking cigarettes of uncertainty on your patio.

I have yet to take the proper GE that teaches me the difference between being in the moment and letting go of it completely. It is here that lies the crucial difference between being what is comprised in those four choice words and being some dumb and gullible hussie.

Only time will tell if I have tested out of this GE. I'll give it until Friday.

I think I'm going to need to buy another pack of cigs if things keep up this way. Give me something to do while I do my best to decipher the inaudible language of moments and movements between two strangers who have shared some passion; give me a brief second to step outside and calculate the distances and kisses and try to place myself if the hormonal web that we call "lust."

Let me know if you read this...I'm assuming only my fan club (Zoe, Coula, Angela, & of course Rowdy Style) do...so let me know...

Oh and here's a picture!

Coachella

2009-04-22T07:58:00.000-07:00

A pilgrimage of hipsters to a land where fanny packs are alright and sweat profusely is part of the experience.

Indio in the Palm Desert opened and up its Polo fields to thousands of children looking for form new facebook albums and maybe see a band or two. Food was expensive, the line for water was questionable, and upon some slight research it was discovered that the most common injury in the place was getting stabbed by a stray needle.

Everyone came dressed to impress, so the crowd was a patch work of vintage patterns and big sunglasses. "trench forecasters" ran around frantically with cameras trying desperately to create some sort of mainstream movement based on the wardrobe choices of some stoned kids in the desert.

Beautiful strangers flourished, with the average person falling in love ten times per hour, only to have their new lover continue walking away and out of their life forever. BUT DID YOU SEE HIS MUSTACHE?

I spent the weekend in a delirium spurred by beer, cold medicine, a cold, sun exposure, weed, and general dehydration. With a melting eyes and a slack jaw, I stumbled around the fields confused trying to figure out where all my friends went. You turn around for one second and all ten of them have dispersed into the crowd of flannel or floral never to be seen again until they randomly appear in the beer garden when you are sipping some with some new friends you made at Amanda Palmer's show.

Now for some bullet points:

Fleet Foxes: a refreshing breeze of spot on harmonies in the midst of the raw and sweaty harshness that is Coachella. They maintained their soothing melodies even with the new-wave reggae band bumping twice as loud from the main stage. They played right as the sun was setting, crooning into an oblivion of purple and pink hues, and a lady bug sat on my neck for almost the entire set.

Beirut: surprisingly jovial atmosphere with everyone in the tent knowing all the words to Nantes. My beloved Zack Condon was sipping what appeared to by whiskey straight, smirked his smirked and danced in his usual way of mixing the right amount of head bob to orchestrating gestures. He did he famous hair-through-the-hair-bit and he played both "Postcards from Italy" and "Scenic World." Solid performance.

Devandra Banhart: Bouncy and excited man he is! Adorning shades of the brightest pink with a festive hat, making all the girls wonder how he gets his hair so shiny with just the right amout of wave; looking handsome with the newly shaved face. Really works the crowd and played songs that were suitable for a festival. Towards the middle of his set he passed the bottle of patron he was sipping out of into the audience.

There are so many more, but I doubt enough people will read this to make it acceptable for me to type it all out and try to find words for all of it.

It was a good weekend, odd to be back at school. Ran into a bunch of people I was extremely happy to see and was extremely happy I didn't see anyone that would put anything remotely close to a damper on my sunshine faded elated Coachella experience. Because they do exist, those bastards.

"I love college"...ehhhhh

2009-04-15T07:18:00.001-07:00

With the orange glow of Mission Beach street lights saturating and contrasting the scene like an iPhoto distortion, a strange Australian boy I don't know defended my honor with his fists in an alleyway, wearing nothing but a towel.

Showing up into a party that looks like an IKEA catalog photo with middle aged homosexuals pouring redheaded sluts and giving bottled mojitos to everyone. We didn't know any of them, but their only concern was whether or not they could get us drunk.

There was a lady I could have sworn was of that same sexual persuasion down stairs whose apartment I had stumbled into, but then she showed up with her British and dashing husband, making her quite the opposite.

She was wearing a leather jacket, easy mistake.

Calls at 1:30 am the next morning

Calls at 12:30 am the next morning

And every single one could have been a dream (& a mistake).

Creeping around at night in silence and not keeping secrets

I mean, when was the last time and whose to say when the next time will be someone is asking me to come out and play at 1:30 on a Tuesday morning?

Now I have put my proverbial foot DOWN. No! No youthful fun and questionable kicks for me! Its Wednesday and I have papers dancing around my head, flapping so loud I can hardly hear your invitation for pong.

My phone is on silent....for now.

*This has been brought to you by sleep deprivation and the common cold.

LIVE! From the couch.

2009-04-11T18:02:00.000-07:00

So I'm dog sitting right now & I'm really happy about it.

I just went for a two hour long stroll through the residential parts of Pacific Beach. Long shadows, cool breeze, coffee shops, so nice.

So when I was drunk on the couch yesterday, I watched "When Harry Met Sally" and noted these two scenes:

1. "If he came to you right now, would you take him back?"

"NOOOOO. But why couldn't he have wanted to marry meeee?"

2. "I'll make love when it's making love! Not like you! Not like how you do it! You know what Harry, you're going to have to move to New Jersey soon because you've slept with every girl in New York and she doesn't seem anything like a distant memory."

Those probably aren't exactly the lines, but you get it.

Now back to the cuddlefest.....

So much for staying sober...

2009-04-10T21:29:00.000-07:00

I was very rude to a foreign man working at a kiosk in the mall today. I was in the middle of a Fashion Valley freak out.

Kids were crying, high schoolers were walking slow and taking up the whole walk way, I could not find this mythical Starbucks, nor the restroom.

"Excuse me, may I ask you a question?" He smirks, seemingly an innocent man with a question.

"Yeess?"

"What do you use on your skin?" Oh, damn...

"Nothing, and I don't want to use anything" catching on...

"Can I show you something?" OH FUCK

"Oh no you don't you bastard!" and I ran away to Oliver Peoples until he was gone. He was lurking around the entrance for a good ten minutes taunting me too...crazy foreign kiosk operators.

There's my story.

Oh, and then I found out every photo I have ever taken has been permanently deleted. All those beloved JPEG and RAW files have gone to a better place, far far away from my external hard drive.

But the real reason I almost started crying on a bench in the middle of a horrifically bustling mall was because of my guilt for how I treated that immigrant just trying to make a living selling skin care products.

Photo Demonstration

2009-04-08T19:47:00.001-07:00

So I wore a sweater vest today. I felt all Annie Hall and hip in my bedroom, and then I went to school.

THEM:

ME:

THIS:

Yep.

I think I just summed up what it means to be a ("strong"?)woman in college.

Some boys might apply to.

I applaud anyone that feels different.

Anytime I say anything slightly feminist (lord forbid I feel outnumbered in a sea of half-nakedness and say something about it) I'm apt to get instantly defensive. I'm used to having males jump on me (figuratively....oh, you) and outline for me all the ways I'm wrong.

Well boys, you can just suck it.

You get to reap the benefits off seeing tight asses all day and I don't get shit.

Eh, they're empty anyways...

2009-04-07T17:55:00.001-07:00

...These words, that is.

I'm listening to some old Daft Punk right now and it's making me feel like a cracked out loser, leaning over my laptop and blogging with some ridiculous soundtrack. I don't usually listen to them, but my mind is expanding all crazy like lately. Seriously willy nilly. But yeah, I feel like I should be smoking a cigarette and doing blow...while blogging and listening to electrospasm noise.

I think I'm less broken hearted and just more broken at this point. So skeptical, so skeptical. Everything girls are supposed to think are cute (Beach Boys lyrics, romantic comedies, flowers) I think are dirty dirty lies perpetuated by a patriarchal society to keep us thinking we are supposed to be pretty, cute and get all weak in the knees at the drop of a cute line. I'm crazy, straight crazy. I'm pretty sure I'm having more fun drifting around from soul to soul anywho:

I've got this new motive. I've discussed with a few. It's called ephemeral love. Love is the best when its short and sweet and fleeting. No lies, nothing drawn out. Just a deep conversation or two, perhaps "more" and the "Peace!" off to the next. I like staring into eyes over coffee, getting a glimpse of some one's soul and then running off. I can't fathom spending any prolonged amount of time with anyone. Seeeee aboooove paragraaaaaaaph: broken.

My sun bleaches my hair, tans my skin and empties my head. My brain starts to feel sun streaked and faded like everything else. I can't decide if I'm thats me being detached from it or so far in it I don't even realize it.

Don't ask me what "it" is. You're silly.

bum bum bum bum bum bumtss bumtss bumtss bumtss bumtss

That's Daft Punk in syllables.

I'm going go watch bad tv now since I have no school work and I'm to wary to start a book.

Another hangover

2009-03-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

I have spent so many nights in my backyard with my brother drinking heavily, chain smoking, and talking shit. Its good fun. Many-a-bottle of rum have been emptied by our livers, and last night was no different. We tried out that new Captain Morgan 100 proof and it aint no lie.

Famous last words of "I feel like this 100 proof nonsense is a sham" were spoken before the pouring of last cocktails and slipping into a part of the night that is not in my memory. I remember dancing to Wu Tang, by myself, in my backyard, and listening to "When the Levee Breaks" in my brother's car while he smoked a bowl. You could probably write the scene for a movie about white trash suburbanites trying to get their kicks in this world based off when my brother and I hang out. I have to say that you could base a scene for a movie off of it because I'm too proud to just say that that's what we are.

So I spent the day mildly hungover and feeling fat/bloated, but having the inability to stop eating. It was one of those insatiable hangovers where once you realize you're hungry, you realize you are REALLY FUCKING HUNGRY, and if you don't eat now, the world might end. You don't care what it is or the fact that you are "on a diet," you just fucking grub. And thats what I did today. I feel all soft in the middle, but I'm pretty sure I'm about to eat a cookie.

Now for some awkward bitching:

I went to my childhood/lifelong surf break today and it felt weird. The waves were like stop-and-go traffic and the crowed was full of cocky kooks in a multitude of levels. Its so awkward when people you know don't say "hi" to you, or aren't as friendly with you as they were at another point in time. Its like "bro, we've gotten drunk together before" or "Um, we're friends on facebook. You know who I am and vice versa. Does that not warrant a greeting? No? Okay, you're a d-bag." But of course I would never say that, I just look at them for awhile, wait for them to glance over and pull some "Oh hey! I didn't see you!" bit, but they don't. So weird, how people function. Such weirdos, the lot of em.

What is the difference between this and livejournal?

Mmm, headache.

2009-03-27T07:24:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I'm not big into sleeping after a long nights and before longer days.

I smoked four Dunhills last night and my lungs feel like I smoked an entire pack in ten minutes. I should probably stop smoking (for awhile). I was good for a second there, but youth will get you every time. I'm invincible, you know?

My close friend Zoe came to visit me last night. We both acquired our first severely broken hearts within a few months of each other (that is, the past few months), so our combined social being is a force to be reckoned with. We went from the streets, to a creeper den, to a USD party on Mission Beach. We were "those girls" who got too drunk for their surroundings, took control of the iPod, and danced by themselves in the living room. I mean, we were switching between The Doors and Dr.Dre, I'd think we were cool. No one REALLY wants to talk to "those girls," especially if it's a USD party. USD kids cling together like its some sort of law of their physical property. Boys will walk away from you (me) in mid conversation and girls will smile for a second before giving you the up-and-down and looking away, never to make eye contact with you again.

Hm, yes, cordial characters those toreros. Is that how you spell it?

Sometimes I look in the mirror and say "Fuck. I'm really blonde." I know I'm really blond, but sometimes it hits me, like last night in an old friend's kitchen while I was making mac and cheese and glanced up into a mirror on the wall. He was wasted, but I was the one that got the mac everywhere, so I cleaned his stove top just so his roommates wouldn't hate me.

The 2-5 hour drive I'm about to do from San Diego to Los Angeles makes me wish my lungs didn't hurt so I could have something to pass the time without realizing I'm getting cancer.

Will anyone read this? Are you entertained by reading this?

Oh dear...

2009-03-26T07:24:00.000-07:00

Here we go, first one...

My internet connection has decided to tease me for the past couple days, forcing me to curb my facebook addiction. If my own morality can't do it, technology can.

I write columns for the school paper (SDSU's Daily Aztec) but there's only so little I can cram into 600-700 words whose sole purpose is to make people giggle. No place for me to be as judgmental and pithy as we all know a 20-year-old girl really can be.

So check this blog to get all the juicy scoops on sorority life!

...I'm kidding. Hit the showers.

Until I decide what direction I'm going to go with this and I properly cess out the situation, I'm going to have to end this here....