October 5, 2012

I am sick of looking for rooms for rent. I’m sick of emailing people and telling them that, even though I’m a complete stranger, I would make a good roommate because I nanny; I’m debating getting Gilda Radner and Madeline Kahn’s signatures as tattoos; and I can make homemade bubble tea with tapioca pearls. I’m sick of feeling like if I can’t find a room, then I’ll have to make a yearlong commitment to an apartment– that even if I like I’ll be stuck in incase I decide to move to LA-LA land. (Which I’ve been pondering as of late, because I really, and I mean *really* want to join the Groundlings.) The thing is, I’m also sick of living with my parents, which has just been utterly the dumbest shit you could even imagine.

More than anything, I’m sick of not being stationed anywhere. Or, rather, not knowing where I’m going to be sleeping on a day to day basis. This kind of uncertainty is nausea inducing. It’s been irritating my already easy irritable anxiety– and I haven’t been able to put a finger on my most productive next move. Unfortunately, that move has not been “enjoy iced latte after iced latte while doodling Gillian Anderson in your journal”. Had this have been the case, we’d be set to jet. And by set to jet I mean: HOLY SHIT SHE HAS THE MOST PERFECTLY GORGEOUS FACE.

With that said, recently what’s been getting to me is that all of my posters are in a shack in my back yard covered in godknowswhat and they haven’t seen the light of day in almost a year and a half. Carmen Miranda is sandwiched under Dolly Parton’s gigantic rack, I have a cardboard sparkly thing-from-Chinatown that wouldn’t fit in Aleena’s carryon when she came to visit me, a half painting Fif and I did before I left for school, a valentine I made for Gilda, and a giant picture Ella Fitzgerald that’s been a bit bent up. It’s not so much that these things haven’t been put to use lately, it’s more that I don’t have a place to put them that’s really *mine*. Even though I have had a lot of places to sleep, it’s been too long since I’ve had a home, and that fucking sucks. (Both the realization of it, and the fact of it.)

Today I was pedaling home on my Nino-bike and I had a tri-pod jimmied to the back with my bike lock, a Polaroid land camera hanging from the handlebars, my friend’s T2i in the front basket next to my journal, my purse, an unopened package of graham crackers, and an iced latte from Waffle Window. (BECAUSE NOTHING STANDS BETWEEN MAMA AND HER WAFFLE WINDOW. YOU HEAR ME BITCHES? NOTHING.) It felt good. I sped up Burnside, was able to blow through Stark, which I love; but then I started getting really sad. I’m not sure why– maybe it’s because I’ve come to the realization that it’s time for a major restructuring of my life. I’ve hit a point where I need to reevaluate a lot of my close friendships (which is lame) and I have to decide who’s worth it, and who isn’t. I hate making close friends, because it’s really tiresome. I guess not that so much– it just feels like a waste of all the time and effort I’ve put into friendships that seem on the verge of fizzling out.

Maybe I need some newness and freshness. Perhaps a jaunt to California is what I need to get some blood pumping in my veins again. I honestly just want a place to call home right now– and have that place not be a mattress pad in my mom’s basement where my closest friend is a spider I’ve named Ed-Leslie because I don’t know if it’s a dude spider or a lady spider.I would also really like it if the people who energize my spirit the most would be within Nino-biking distance to wherever this mystical “home” place decides to be.

Dear Universe.

I hope this isn’t too tall of an order?



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