Oobi Doobi Magic Crap

Anti-socialness spurred by exhaustion, with the depression shaken and stirred in.

I've hit this frustrated spot.

I'm trying to write. I'm trying to convey these moments that I enjoy, these ideas, these feelings, and it feels like it's just not working. That people aren't getting it.

And I know it's up to the interpretation of the reader, and I shouldn't get so frustrated by it, that my words are being mis-read, misunderstood, mistaken, but it makes me not want to write because I know whatever I'm going to put out there, 99% of people are not going to get it.

And of that 99%, 11% are going to write to me to tell me how much they get it and how wonderful it is and how close we are in spirit and how we should meet and how we should date and they don't feel so alone anymore and I'm sitting there, staring at the screen going "Oh holy fuck, get off me."

Not exactly friendly.

But, it's so frustrating. I thought words were supposed to be my "thing". That's what everyone has said for so long. Well, what good is it if I can't convey basic feelings? What good is it if I speak or write and no one understands it?

And I know I'm writing for me, this journal is for me, and if people enjoy it, I think that's great because I like to feel not quite so alone and unread, and some of the people that read my stuff, here and elsewhere, are really freaking cool.

But I feel betrayed by myself and by them when I hear these interpretations of my behavior or my thoughts that are so very, very wrong. Is that how you see me?

I used to be so fascinated by how people saw me. Not because I wanted to have people tell me how great I was (or how not-great), but because I think different views are fascinating and part of knowing yourself is knowing how you present yourself. And I'm all about self-knowledge.

For instance, I had no idea until last year that the reason why so many people keep their distance from me at clubs is because they find me intimidating and aloof, which I still don't see, but I've heard it enough, especially after I make friends with someone there, that I'm starting to accept it.

It didn't make me change my behavior, mind you. But I became aware of it.

(insert "the more you know" rainbow here)

This whole thing is making me not want to write, not want to talk, not want to email, because I just can't handle being misunderstood right now and I have no idea why it is bothering me so much, aside from the idea that if I can't communicate something with words, then I'm a failure and I should even bother writing. I should just keep my stories and experiences bottled up in me because if I ever bother to write them all down, I'll end up having to interact with people like that fratboy from the other night, at Denny's, when I was trying to write.

I don't want to deal with that. Closedminded people drive me up the wall, and people who don't realize that they're viewing everything through their own filter of their experiences, that lack of awareness on their part... I can't deal with it right now. I'm too tired, I'm too stressed.

And I caught myself doing the filter viewing last week. I was reading this amazing blog, thinking to myself, "Wow, we're so similiar, I could really understand this guy." And then I realized, no, no we're not. I'm reading his stuff through my own eyes and seeing what I want to see and drawing my own conclusions and I need to cut that out right now because it's beyond creepy and annoying.

So, yes. I've withdrawn into my cave and I will come out and post and go to work and flirt with that tattooed rockabilly hottie in my classes, but I've really got to ratchet things down until I get off of my bitchy anti-social podium because I almost, almost, almost went into full-on bitch mode with this guy in my class tonight because I just wanted a verbal sparring partner and I needed that mental smack around to release the aggression that is building inside me, and he had no idea what was going on and I had to cool off very fast.

I slip when I'm tired.

Tomorrow, class.
Thursday, C+friends.
Friday, GV8.
Saturday, hair-dye, arms waxed, pedicure(?), dad's birthday dinner, friend's birthday party, write a paper, read a book for class, read a play for the other class, write a paper for that class on the play.
Sunday, wedding, more reading, more writing for school, maybe tv-marathon with my friend.

Maybe I'll fit sleep in there somewhere so I don't turn into a raging unstable hosebeast.

Probably not.

At least I'm not going into the office at 7AM tomorrow like I did today. I'd like to avoid ever doing that again if at all possible.

/whine

Something has changed within me...

I really don't have time for writing this right now, but I know if I do not tackle it before I head home for the day, I'll be up entirely too late writing about it tonight. No bueno.

GV8 made me a proposition.

He wants to live what he calls "the rock star life" for the next year, starting August 1st.

He wants to rent a property somewhere in Hollywood, for about $4000 a month or so, and start throwing gigantic themed parties every Saturday, where he takes all the people he knows, all the people I know, and the people that they know, and turn it into whatever madness he can.

We know lots of people.

In this, he wants me to move into said property for a year and document the entire thing.

We're looking at houses in Hollywood Hills, warehouse/loft/stores on Santa Monica Blvd, houses off of Sunset, and the like.

He will furnish me with a new iPhone, new laptop, new camera, give me a "down payment" of $5000 and also pay me weekly as I set up and host these events, as I furnish and organize. He'd be doing my health insurance, we'd be getting personal trainers, he's getting a vasectomy (whoo!), and I would be writing nearly full-time because it wouldn't take that much of my week to do the organizing and the like once I set a schedule.

I've pretty much turned him down and it freaking kills me.

I'm trying to get away from the party scene. I'm sick of going clubbing so much, sick of partying all the time, and still tainted from the most recent boyfriend's constant need to party and impress everyone around him.

I want to work on me. I want to go back to school, I want to get my Master's, I want to write, I want to work at this company I'm trying so hard to get into. I want to chill out. I want to not go out every single freaking night. I want downtime. I want to relax. I want my phone to stop ringing so much, text messages, emails, all this crap I'm so very done with.

I was so looking forward to having a relaxing, yet very intense sexual relationship with this man, and now he's going to be living the LA party lifestyle and is willing to give me electronics, a fabulous living place for free, a paycheck, a contract to go with that paycheck, and complete freedom to write and explore LA as I see fit, not to mention taking me out all the time and...

I don't want it.

I want parts of it, of course. A fantastic place in Hollywood? Complete and total freedom from having a 9 to 5? Encouragement to write and the stimulation from events that would occur? Electronics? Constant fine dining?

It's too much.

I've known him for less than two months.

I cannot put my life on hold for his. I'm not one to go chasing the random and improbable. If it fails, it could be disasterous. If it succeeded, I'd hate the constant parties. Accepting his offer would basically be forcing myself to be in a near-constant state of anxiety, knowing that every weekend would never be my own, knowing that my living quarters would be subject to invasion by masses of inebriated people.

It would take more than he offered for me to do that for a year.

How much is a year of your life worth?

How much would have to be offered for you to do something every week that would make you extremely ill at ease and cause issue within your own psychology? That you would, each week, have to engineer and advertise for this very thing you've grown to loathe?

And the internal conflict, the "Really, it'd be worth it, having the freedom, being able to write, being able to explore, just put up with the situations that wreck you. Assess the damage later."

The knowing that this will probably take him away from me. The first man I've met in nearly a year that would actually, possibly be boyfriend material. How rare that is. As more time passes, experiences and vibrations stack, making it so hard to find someone who suits me, who I suit.

If I lose him, he's not worth it.

"Those grapes were probably sour anyway," is whispered into my ear.

But it's still painful, still disappointing. Still eats at me and tears me into pieces.

Of course, being torn into pieces is something I have experience with.

I wish I could be that girl for him. I wish chunks of my life weren't dominated by fear of the unknown, and that anxiety didn't have such an incapacitating effect on me. I wish I had been more social, I wish I could rely on the fundamental goodness of man, instead of the fundamental self-interest of man. I wish I was secure enough in myself to know that I could handle any situation at any time, that no matter what happens, I'll be okay, that I can take care of myself.

But I don't. I'm not.

Life has shown me in many ways that things are thrown at you that you can't completely handle, that you just have to make the best of bad situations and fight so you aren't destroyed in the process of attempting to save yourself or those around you.

Probably not the happiest outlook.

I know I need to get over this fear that, somehow, I am unable to truly take care of myself. It's not a healthy fear, but it is certainly one that has been instilled in me for as long as I can remember. You can't take care of yourself, don't go to far from the nest or something horrible will happen.

I've done things to try to break this. Put myself in places or situations where I was taking care of myself and others. But, in the end, it hasn't been enough. Still that fear lingers in me, causes anxiety.

I'm so sick of feeling anxious in certain situations. Like on Saturday, when GV8 and I went out with some of my friends to a club. And one of them, a girl, got shitfaced and started fighting and yelling at the people around us. I've never been to a club and had one of my friends get to that point. Parties, sure. Club? No. She's right next to me yelling at these girls that did nothing to her, chewing them out and about to go knock their skulls together and I'm, while outwardly calm, freaking out inside my head.

I'm so very over drunks.

I'm so over people who can't monitor and maintain themselves, who don't watch and control their behavior, who expect the people around them to watch them to make sure they don't land in the drunk tank or crash their car into a tree (hasn't happened in a while, thankfully).

Maybe I'm jealous of people being able to let go and have total faith in themselves and their friends to have everything come out okay.

It's possible.

Or maybe I'm sick of steering around drunk people.

Maybe seeing my friend climbing between balconies in Vegas on the 17th floor of a casino was too much.

Maybe losing entire groups of people as they get angry, start fighting, and run off into multiple different directions in not the best area did it.

Or having to bust down bathroom doors to get to people that have passed out and might have alcohol poisoning.

Or watching people fall down flights of stairs at clubs.

Or walk into doorways and poles.

Or maybe it was watching a group of friends breaking into apartments in their complex through sheer strength and numbness of the nerves.

Maybe it was having the carpet in every room but one in my apartment vomited on, as well as the kitchen and bathrooms during a single party.

Or trying to control a 6'7" ex-bouncer who was seconds away from a drunken rampage and, really, I wasn't sure if he was going to hit me or not, but I wasn't about to let him get kicked out of his favorite club in a fit of self-loathing induced drunkness. I've got good reflexes, but he's been fighting for over a decade.

It might be years of having to dodge the drunks on the dancefloor, and when said drunks decide they're coordinated enough to dance and drink... and then spill their drink all over the floor, which means you're spending the rest of your evening dancing in a sticky wet spot that is slowly being spread by foot traffic over the rest of the floor because someone was a selfish prick who couldn't stop nursing their drink for a three to five minute song.

It could have been the man I affectionately called "Beer-o", who would get drunk off of beer, strip to the waist, and dance around the clubs, pouring more beer over himself like some wet starlet... except less attractive. Every so often, I'll see someone I think might be him at the clubs, and I won't be certain until he starts dancing.

Maybe it was that time in Venice, when I was hanging out with some of the transient population, they ended up having too much to drink and, if it hadn't been for my ability to handle horny men, I more than likely would've ended up in a gang rape situation.

Gang rape, sure. Gang rape by hobos, no.

You know, maybe I'll never figure out why I just don't like drunk people. I mean, they've got so much going for them. So charming, attractive, and witty. Their intelligence and respect towards other people's boundaries is quite endearing.

Hm. That was a bit of a tangent.

Really, I'm just irritated/disappointed about GV8's decision regarding the next year and my friend getting so embarassingly drunk. I'm also irritated at myself in regards to my ability to believe in myself when it comes to handling situations I've yet to be exposed to. If I did have that faith in myself, in my ability to handle, in my ability to cope, then I wouldn't have anywhere near the amount of fear or anxiety I do in regards to potentially taking up GV8 up on his offer.

It's annoying and frustrating, to realize at least some of the things that hold you back, and yet be unable to control them. I can't logic myself out of this anxiety. I can try, but it doesn't last for more than a day.

And I hate that GV8 put me in this position. Yes, he was trying to be helpful, trying to give me something I wanted: the time and space to write, and weekly, if not daily stimulation and subject matter.

What more could I want?

And now I feel like an ass because I turned down such a generous offer. He wanted me there by his side through all of this, wanted to experience this with me. He was willing to spend the money, was willing to give me what would be a free ride with extras for a year, so I could do this, so I could follow a dream of writing.

What makes it worse is that I don't know if this gut feeling telling me not to take him up on the offer is spawned from instinct, of knowing something is wrong with him or the situation, or if it is spawned from fear. It feels like a mix of both, but I would feel so much better if I could figure out which dominated. If I knew for sure it was the fear speaking, I could work with it.

But instinct? You have to listen to.

Is my body reminding me that my mind isn't ready for this? That I am not healed enough to go into this sort of lifestyle and retain sanity and reality? Since I've yet to truly define my self-concept, going into a year surrounded by people and parties would probably not be good for me.

Or it would force me to recognize myself.

Or I could burn out, as has been cautioned to me time and time again.

This makes me wish I had ever let someone close enough to me. This makes me wish I had another person to bounce things off of, someone who really knows me, someone who wants me to be happy, someone who will encourage me in whatever decision I make. I have friends but, for all my self-disclosure, I keep back the important parts.

I wish I could trust him.

I wish I could leap into his arms and know, know that no matter what, he would catch me.

But to ask that of someone a month and a half in, when you're floating along with each other with no said expectations, that's a little much.

I wish he hadn't.

I wish he had waited until next year.

I wish I could gather up momentum and launch into him with perfect faith, slam into his chest and know he would not move.

It's a lot to ask of a girl.

And, I suppose, a number of girls would be whole enough, undamaged enough, or even wrecked in a particular way that they could do it without hesitation.

I'm cautious. I weigh each step carefully, analyze into the ground all possible outcomes and force myself to realize that of all possible outcomes I've thought of, there's at least six more. I try to watch patterns and habits, see how much follow through there is... but I haven't known him long enough to do that. I've met a few of his friends, but none of his employees as of yet.

I wish I could trust.

And I blame myself. I totally do. For not handling everything in the past as fully as I should have, for not keeping myself healthy on a physical and psychological level. If I had addressed things properly when they should've been addressed, if I hadn't let fear and panic dominate, I'd be healthier.

Stable.

It's funny when stability becomes a lofty goal.

And I'm not talking about external stability. I have that. People rarely seem to realize everything I'm hiding. And, truly, I don't realize everything I'm hiding. I want to take my mind apart and fix it. I want all this damage, all the abuse, all the horrific experiences that linger on in my mind, to become okay. To become acceptable to me, to become normal, to become weightless, so I can stop letting it affect the current me.

Of course, I'm working on it. Journaling, thinking, talking, reading books about different ways to heal, trying to learn about life-areas that I'm so very lacking in. There's so much stuff to deal with and get over, things that I can't even imagine the source of.

But it's in me somewhere.

I took GV8 to my favorite restaurant in Little Tokyo on Saturday, then we went to the club where my friend was drunk and aggressive. Sunday, we went out to Aroma again. I continue to love that cafe. We drove around, looking at properties in Hollywood and Los Feliz, (ended up driving up to Hollywood Ranch by the Hollywood sign and taking a short climb up to view it... funny that I had never seen that sign before, even though I've been here my entire life) then caught UP at the theater in Silverlake on Vermont, next to Skylight Books. Ended up back at one of his stores, again on the white leather couch which is lovely because after sex, squirting, or dripping wet blowjobs, you can just wipe it off without stain.

I had been planning on sex, but ended up going down on him for a half hour or so. I've been messing with my technique lately, and just messing around in general. GV8 is a happy participant to my oral experiments. I've hit the point where I can generally get a guy to orgasm without bobbing my head, just tongue-work. So now it has become an experiment of what else I can do, what is fun for me, what feels good on my hands and mouth, as well as learning to maintain a natural rhythm between tongue, lips, head, and hands. It's like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, wiggle your toes, and spin in a circle counter-clockwise to your belly rubbing.

Okay, I lie. It's not that hard. But I want to get to a point where I can just relax and chill and not have to constantly be checking to make sure everything is moving as it should. Almost there. GV8's a brilliant partner, and yes, it works out well. I'm looking forward to spending time with SFPlayboy again, trying out some of these new movements and seeing how he enjoys them. He already holds my oral in high regard, so this should cause his mind to implode.


Crap. I just had an hour distraction from this at work. Talk about losing flow.

Tonight I'm going to go straight home, shower, pop some Nyquil and put in a movie, and pass out. I'm getting sick thanks to my lack of sleep and the stress put on me this past weekend.

Tomorrow, my sister magically signed me up to be part of a reality show... and they want to audition me. So I'm doing that. Sigh. I'm really just using this as leverage for next time the Rockettes are auditioning in order to force her to go to that, since she wussed out this last time.

Tomorrow is also C's birthday. I think we might go to a strip club.

Wednesday I get to dodge gropes from my friend's soon to be ex husband.

Thursday is winging for an unknowing C so she can get into Crosser's pants. I was relaying that story to GV8 on Saturday, he was laughing so hard.

I don't even want to think about Friday+weekend yet. I think I've purposefully blocked my coming weekend schedule from my mind because I can't remember a thing and that's just not right at all.

...and then I remembered. Dammit.

If I get sick(er), I'm screwed. Well, my schedule is screwed. Might be for the best.

I mean, really, running my body into a state of burning wreckage is like nature's way of telling me to slow down.

To pull myself together...

I have this sort of mental issue with goals.

Throughout my life, whenever I've really, really wanted something, I never get it.

The more I express excitement or joy over a particular possibility, the more I allow my mind to imagine my potential future as impacted by whatever it is I want (a job, a man, a contract, a raise, an item), the less likely that possibility seems to occur.

It's quite frustrating.

So I don't set goals for myself. Not actively.

And I don't let myself daydream about stuff that might at all be possible. I reserve my daydreams for the land of complete fantasy.

It's not that I feel that I don't deserve to be happy.

I am happy most of the time.

It's just that a major part of me feels that my desire for something will, somehow, have a negative correlation with the chances of me getting it.

Like I'm not allowed to have dreams that come true.

For instance, there is a company that I've wanted to work for for years. It's been a dream employer of mine, something I thought I would never get because my lifestyle does not allow for the hours or wages I would receive.

Suddenly, I'm put in the position where I can take the hours, where I can take the minimal paycheck that starting there would entail.

And, on top of that, I'm able to go back to school to get my Master's in the field I actually want to go into, which I wasn't able to do for my BA. This job's hours would complement the hours I would be going to class. This job could keep me employed for the next three years with a stable company that is barely impacted by this recession. I would be working with my kind of people, with people that I've known for years.

And I'd be able to sleep in my own bed during the week, as opposed to the couch-surfing I'm engaging in now which, while I've gotten used to it, leaves me little of the alone time I so desperately crave.

I submitted my resume in early May, through one of their managers.

I have multiple, shining references all over the field, within their own company, and companies that they partner with.

I have years of experience with their products. I speak their language easily.

It's almost mid-June.

This is taking forever.

The more days pass the more I wonder if this is just another one of my dreams. That I hoped too much.

I don't even vocalize my goals to people, for fear that even saying the words aloud will make them not come true, so often has this happened.

I pushed back my school schedule for an entire semester so I could potentially get this job.

Is this going to be the rest of my life? Too afraid to set goals, too afraid to acknowledge and pursue dreams because I've convinced myself over the years that I will fail immediately once they are spoken aloud?

All I've ever wanted to do was make enough money writing so I could travel all over the world and write.

I've always been addicted to stories, following around my grandparents and parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, in-laws and neighbors, harassing them for tales of their youth. I know so much about my family, about what they were like as children, what pets they had, their hare-brained adventures, their traumas, their high school life, their family issues, etc. Even now, I have an ability to somehow make people open their lives to me.

It was pointed out to me that this is because I am so honest and disclose so much of myself, that wakes up things in people that make them want to disclose as well. And then the floodgate bursts open.

My head is a mass of stories.

I wish I could take all the stories I've heard and put them together. I know so many random, interesting people with such colorful histories, and each of them has a tale or twenty that is a moment in time, this perfect snapshot of intense emotion, emotion so overwhelming that there is nothing but honesty, nothing by this pure experience.

I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I took all my writing from over the years and somehow managed to consolidate it.

That would be converting notes, napkins scribbles, sketchbooks, journals, and class notebooks partially converted to the written word, into text files. That would be bringing together all my old work, scattered across the internet and hidden in various email inboxes, into one location.

My writing is, apparently, nomadic in nature.

We hunt wooly mammoths together, with keyboards for shields and pencils instead of spears.

I am such a dork.

Everyone is a story.

I love to people-watch. I love to find a corner in some horribly crowded area and sit and listen, sit and watch how people interact with each other, wonder about the story behind a well-used hat, faded tattoos, a scar running up someone's forearm. Accents and voice patterns, inside jokes that cause only a few people to laugh and the rest to stare on in confusion.

I approach strangers fairly often. If I can, I get information from them. About them. People like to talk about themselves and I like to listen.

I would rather write about myself, anyway.

The keys beneath my fingers open up more inside me than any conversation could.