Parking Tickets

WARNING: This post mentions LA parking and itchy vaginas.

The past few weeks have been a whirl wind. I’m finally living the cliche I always wanted: moving to LA to pursue my dreams.

Now, this is only possible because I am lucky enough to have help from my parents. They agreed to pay my rent for one year after I delivered a strong (dare I say, POETIC??) powerpoint presentation on why I should move to the city of  ample movies and douchebags. In short, you kind of need to if you want to write for TV.

For the first time in awhile, I’ve felt really happy. I have friends in LA, a retail job I enjoy and I finally feel like I’m moving towards my goal. And tonight, after a long day of work, I lied down, put in my mouth guard and…. heard an odd noise. It was unfamiliar, almost like a zamboni, but more brushy, almost-


Due to a lack of AC and an itchy vagina, I am bare ass naked. (PRO TIP: If you have an ichy vagina, air your lady bits at night.) I stumble around my room looking for pj’s and keys. But when I got outside, it was too late. About two hours too late. I was supposed to vacate the street for street cleaning between 11 and 1am and it’s almost 1. The ticket is $64.

From then on things kinda went south ruuuuuul quick.

I come back inside. I imagine the nasty notes I’ll write on the check. I hit myself on the head. Hard. Again. Again. I imagine being able to brutally kill the street zamboni man, the meter maid, myself, myself in front of him and his family. Him living with the guilt of causing my suicide. His family never being the same. I returned to image of my dead form. Again. And again.


Doge will never die.

So I sat. I cried. I missed my boyfriend. I missed my family. I hated the new city where they clean different parts of the block at different times, where $1000 bucks a month does not guarantee a parking space. I hated that my fixed income meant this $64 would hurt. Again, I missed my boyfriend who was eight hours ahead and thousands of miles away. I opened up whatsapp to let him know I loved him.

After I hit “send” I giving my boyfriend an extra “I love you” was, at least, on good thing to come out of this. I kind kinds turned this parking fiasco into a positive. So I tried to see other positives. Maybe this was sort of right of passage for LA residents? Maybe I could use this adrenaline rush to get some extra writing done?  Maybe there were some positive butterfly effect type outcomes? But then, I realized somehing.

My emotions, the hitting myself, the hating. It had passed. It hadn’t lingered with me the way it used to, sticking on my back for days, sweaty and too close. There are approximately one metric fuck ton of reasons why my negative emotions passed like they did (therapy, art, friends, family, circumstance, powerpoint and luck to name a few. But right now, I’m here to tell you that this is one of that many reasons I’m glad to live.

Sometimes I will be having this perfectly happy day, and then something happens and I imagine myself hanging from a rope and it feels so good and right that I’m not even aware of how much those feelings should scare me. But then I recognize these feelings. I know it’s okay to feel them, but they offer no real truth. Then, after awhile or a bit, I will let them go.

Some see it as a battle. That helps them. Some are able to lessen their emotions forever. But that’s not me. Though my dark emotions are less before they’re still there, especially when I make mistakes. Even if it’s just a parking ticket.

I see my dark emotions as an old, complicated companion. She comes into town: hurt, sick and cruel.  I cannot change her, but I can be kind. I wait for her to quiet. I have ways to help her quiet.  It may take awhile, but she will. Then, she will leave. She might come back, but she reminds me of who I was and am, and it’s hard to hate her too long for that.

I’m so glad I’ve lived because I am slowly, but steadily getting this. Because I can sob and wish to die and then be okay. I’m not cursed. I’m strong. And alive. And, at the risk of sounding repetitious, I’m very happy I’m alive for the person I am becoming today.


Hello lovely internet people.  This post is a little different. A while ago I mentioned how I got back into this blog because I got an message from someone about it. It was strange, and scary, to see my emotions, some that I had almost forgotten. I think the best metaphor I have is when I think about the emotions I used to have for my ex, who was, in short, not a super great person. The emotions are like these mirror images. Something cold, and flat, but life like and real.

While this message was unsettling, it also reminded me of how I’ve learned to manage many of my darker emotions. But furthermore, it illustrated the tunnel vision that depression provides. Where emotions seem permanent, change seems impossible. It was an odd gift to revisit this blog after leaving the darker parts of my depression.  Obviously not like a Christmas gift, but you know what I mean.

This someone who messaged me was Ben of Ben Writes A Lot, Sometimes, I Guess*  I offered for him to write his own blog post about a reason not to kill himself. He expected. The result is “The Joy of Mystery,” where Ben discuses art and letting go.

The Joy Of Mystery.

I feel like there’s a great big dirty secret when it comes to making art. It’s that every artist surely can’t define where theirthing comes from. The thing that’s just inside them and has gotta come out, no questions asked. Perhaps this is one of the Great Mysteries of humanity – what “creativity” really is. I think it’s something real important, something ancient. A crucial part of our ability to survive, to adapt. But it’s not like it’s just creativity that is a mystery. Isn’t the way of the world, when you escape your ego – chaos? There’s just too many variables to credit yourself for your art. So much of what you did came from observations of happenings that you did not control, did not create. But the joy of it was never the end result, so relax. Just channel your muses when they whisper in your ear. And the thing is, it’s pointless me saying this, because when you really mean it … it’ll just happen.

I mean, there’s nothing more indulgent than parading your art in front of other humans for validation. And furthermore, nothing more pleasurable than when it works. But there’s also nothing further from self-worth. Nothing further from peace than turning even art in to another distraction. Another escape from yourself, another experiment in gratification, another way to externalise your worth. My point here isn’t to condemn or even educate. It’s to express. Do what makes you happy, absolutely. This is me, you are you. If there was one point of view, there would be even less mystery. I love that I could be wrong. This feeling that I’ve had lately – that art is so much more than an escape – is in my heart because it has consistently proved true. It has to be undefinable. When I stop trying, the words come. Not no words, not too many words, just enough for the job.

I believe that mystery is at the heart of the universe. That the “creative act” is completely personal, totally mysterious, and that way by necessity. I believe that true art is the simplest art to make. Simple, but not easy. Not easy because you first have to learn to let go, and that is no small feat. Learn to unlearn. Offer yourself in your art and you bring something new to the table. I believe that, too. Agree, disagree, forget, whatever. I don’t know, but I bet you don’t either. I’m in thisbecause of the feeling and I hold nothing against those in it for the result. Seriously, fuck it. I just think there’s a grand case to be made for dancing with the chaos, embracing the mystery, and letting the fuck go.

PS. Thank you very much to Allison for letting me write on her awesome-as-fuck blog. A great concept, truly. It really cheered me up during a shitty time and it’s an honour to collaborate in this way with her.

Stayin’ Alive for Citrus

In junior high I had several California Cuties. (The fruits, not the people. My game is proportional to my cup size. Then: non-existent. Now: adequate.)  When I bent the peal towards it’s orange outside, a soft spray of oil would color the air fresh and bright. I often forgot the rinds in my childhood room, falling asleep to the scent.

Limes smell like summers in college. Vibrant and green, they cut harsh tequila and rum, coupling with ice. My brother mixed the limes with bakers sugar, rum, and mint at my sister’s bridal party. We drank pitchers of the stuff and spent the next day in a dim room with cheap pizza.

Lemons remind me of my mother. She bought special Meyers to make my sister’s friend her favorite pie. The young woman had just lost her parents and found the holidays painful. So, the night before Easter, my mother juiced a dozen of the green fruit with yellow insides. She combined the zest with sugar in the food processor. Sweet citrus kissed the kitchen counter and my greedy hands.

I never cared for grapefruit. At eight, I piled spoonfuls of sugar on the first one my aunt gave me. She didn’t give me a second. Fourteen years later, I found I liked it mixed with gin.

My brother and sister went to Thailand, meeting a beautiful country and his girlfriend’s family. They brought back a love of pomelos and found some at a local Asian Market. I had never tasted the citrus, it’s with yellow exterior and thick, foamy peal. It look five minutes to get to the flesh inside: soft grapefruit and lime.

Stay alive for the scent of citrus. The promise of pomelo and the give of lime, for the tastes that make our mouthes come alive.



Important things to know:

  • I am very much alive
  • This whole “being alive” thing is working out pretty well
  • I am far more enthusiastic about CAPS LOCK
  • I still have no idea what I am doing
  • I’m not sure I thought these bullet points through


In February, I got an email from THIS guy.  It completely caught me off guard. Never mind the blog, I forgot this part of myself existed. It was like a miniature identity crisis after remembering a sad, weird fever dream. But ever since then, it’s been hard not to think of this corner of the Internet and the person I used to be.

So I thought I’d do this retrospective kind of thing. FYI, This is less structured than my previous post so prepare yourself for a ROLLAR COASTER. Well, a roller coaster if you ever went to Six Flags and thought, ‘Hey, I like this, but what if it was depressing with a sprinkling of not depressing???’ Congrats. You’ve found the right place.  Now, let’s begin.

First off, it does get better. I know, I know. That kind of post sometimes pisses me off too, like YAY I’M SO GLAD YOU HAVE A HUSBAND AND DREAM JOB BUT HOW DOES THAT HELP ME.

But really, guys. I can’t tell you the things I would have missed if I’d offed myself in 2012. I mean, I was fresh out of college. I can’t even tell you how young I seem. Since then I’ve:

  • attended Clarion West (amazing, amazing, program more on that later)
  • finished grad school in London
  • met my WEE BABY NIECE!!

Since 2012, I’ve written a screenplay, lived in a foreign country, held a tiny person, seen Prague, written a comic book and made new friends. Holy shit, we have DONE THE THINGS.

But now for the serious.

Though it does get better (so, SO, much better) it never gets easy.

I graduated from grad school about year ago. I’m living with my family  and looking for work. I’m not great with my writing habits. I’m not published. Most my friends are far away. I don’t know where I’m going.  Grad school, therapy, writing a novel, it was all good, but there are no quick fixes. Yes, the feeling of despair is so, so much less and frequent. But sometimes, despite all the progress and uphill battles, I wish I was dead. I hate myself. I feel numbness.

So then (if I’m being good) I take a deep breathe, and I think. Yes, I need to write more, apply for more jobs. I need to become the kind of person I want to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have value. Besides-

(take a BIGGER breath)

-my mother is making a Muppets quilt for my niece downstairs. The  blanket for the Cookie Monster square is  bright blue and fuzzy. It’s going to hang on the wall of a tiny red headed thing with chubby cheeks and powerful lungs. She’ll be two in August.

You never know when you get to touch fuzzy blankets. It’s not something you want to miss.


Help in Black and White

I’m going to make this quick, just wanted to share a pic I found:


You know it’s deep cause it’s in black and white.

Stay strong everyone. And remember to do what makes you feel alive (even if it doesn’t feel the same right now). Helps to fight off all the other nasty shit. I wish I could give you all a hug, and I have totally space bubble issues. Hope to have a longer post soon, stay classy y’all.

Just a Quick Check In

Look! I’m not dead! You know, that is really one of the things about being suicidal. You get to pat yourself on the back for being alive. Who else can say that? Besides soldiers I guess. And the poverty stricken. Moving on!

Why it’s good to live today? Because there are people are there to help you. Since we’ve spoken last, I’ve started therapy (The woman has a fluffy dog in her office; if that’s not grade A therapy, I don’t know what is.), taken some “how to get a job workshops” and joined a non-profit community media group. $30 bucks for half a year of using kick ass film equipment. Not fuckin’ bad. All these places and people have helped me. Yes, they are paid too. But these are people who have chosen to dedicate their lives to helping people. These people exist. Wonderful people, who, at the very least are excellent are pretending to be not selfish. And that is really, really lovely.

Also, semi-colons. I mean, someone was like, “Fuck, let’s connect these two complete sentences!” And the delightful semi-colon was born. It helps clean up run on sentences. And you feel so smart when you use it right. It even looks friendly; doesn’t it? So much more forgiving than a period; so much more solid than a comma. It is my best friend. I try no to overuse it, but fuckin’ a it is wonderful.

On a backtrack note, it really is special if you are fighting and winning against suicide and depression. In modern society, our mind is the battlefield. And depression can rob it of any nutrients. We are soldiers and survivors. We are alive. And right now, I can feel it. It’s beautiful. I’m glad I lived today.

What makes me come alive

Hello, gentle readership! My brain feels like cement and my limbs hardly obey me, but more about that later. I’m sure you’re DYING to know about my FASCINATING tale of adventure.

I searched for “adventure” in a free image website. The result concerns me.

I had my graduation ceremony, which, actually, was helpful. The happiness and hope, instead of making me resentful (I’m usually a contrary bitch), made me hopeful and happy too. Not only did the energy of my fellow graduates make me feel less than suicidal, but one speaker did as well. She said, “Ask not what does the world needs more of, but what makes you come alive. Because what the world needs are more people who come alive.”

I was thinking it too.

It suck with me, not only because it reminded me of the undead,  but because I’m not sure what makes me come alive.  Because I’ve noticed my depression or whatever you want to call it has left me kind of numb. The things that made me happy or content no longer release the same feelings. But I think I may have some ideas for what may make me come alive when I get out of this slump. The first one is obvious: love.

If I wasn’t trying to be optimistic right now, I’d comment how those sentimental bastards should plunge their smug hands into the core of the sun.

There are few things that bring me more joy than talking to my lover (yes, I know it’s a weird word but this is my corner of the internet). And though my tolerance for people has plummeted since I’ve begun feeling suicidal, my friends and family are also really invaluable. I don’t appreciate them nearly as much as I should.

The other two things I’m not as sure about, but lets go off on a limb: drawing and writing. I’m not sure if drawing “makes me come alive,” but it helps take the pain and even the numbness away. I don’t draw anything particularly violent or depressing, and maybe that’s why. I can ignore all my problems when I have a pen in my hand. As for writing, that’s a bit longer story.

Well, not that long.

I have a complicated on and off again relationship with the written word. Because I don’t want to bust out a “Game of Thrones” on your ass, I’ll just begin with this morning. When I woke up today, two hours after the butt crack of noon, I couldn’t move. It wasn’t like I had worked out the day before, or I was really sleepy (I’d gotten ten hours), but I actually couldn’t force myself to move. I kept trying to move my hands and my arms, trying to think of reasons to get up, but none of them would make my body move. It was like my mind was trying to be helpful, but my body knew I had nothing to live for.

And then I thought of a topic for this blog. And I got up.

I’m not sure if that qualifies for “making me come alive” but giving me the ability to dictate my own limbs is a pretty good start.  I have to keep living to get out of this funk and really figure out what makes me come alive. I have to find more reasons to get up.

Well, that’s it for today, ladies and gentlemen. I get my images from stock images websites, so click on the photos to check out the artists. Until next time.