I am a machine

I loved someone...once upon a time. I didn’t know that I loved him until he broke my heart. He broke my heart more than once. More than twice. It happened over and over again. I sat by and let it happen, I watched as though it were happening to someone else. Fuck me while you're breaking my heart. Leave me while you’re breaking my heart. Come back and knock on my door and see if I’m strong enough to let you in to do it all over again. Trust me, I am strong enough.

I am invincible. I am a machine. I’m a fucking, sucking, story telling machine. I’ll tell myself any and everything so that I believe the words as they fall from my mouth. I’m a soul sucker, a non-believer. I can do anything and most of the time I do. I have less to lose than the typical person, and especially less than the typical girl. In my mind I lost everything a long time ago. I don’t really remember when… I don’t actually know if I ever really had anything at all. I came from a place devoid of a belief system. It was always about survival. If you truly want to survive you have to let go of your beliefs. They will only taunt you and drag you down. Can I get naked to support my daughter and myself? Yes, I can. Can I convince myself that a man loves me so that I don’t feel alone anymore? Yes, I can. Can I snort/smoke/swallow these drugs to make it all go away? Oh yes, yes I definitely can.

Don’t get me wrong, I have truly loved. I have truly lost. I’m obsessed with loss. I sometimes think that I love just to lose. Because that’s what I know. A sure thing? No thank you. That’s much too easy.

who do you work for?

...good question. I don’t even want to think abut the answer to that. I fear that the answer would be too disappointing. That it might “lessen” my opinion of myself… how myself views...myself that's a joke.  Hah.  Wow. Next topic.

When I drink… no, when I am alone – truly alone, and I drink, I think of certain things. Things that make me cry. It’s like my teenage autopilot kicks in and I’m 17 again. The only difference is 20 years and the fact that now I kind of decide which little daggers I allow to come at me from every angle. And I just let them go/come – all of them, all at once. This happens every time I am alone, without fail. Be it vacation, a holiday, a day off of work – it doesn’t matter. Apparently - - this is what I live for. This is what I work for...moments when I can release my daggers. And then I work so very hard to cover up the scars that the daggers leave behind. The thing is, is that I enjoy the process. I start off with the most painful memories and top it off with all of the things that I should have done and shouldn’t have done. Throw in a dash of what I could have done differently. It’s a no-fail recipe. Suddenly, I long, I want, I regret, I dream, I wish, I envelope myself in turmoil that in my day-to-day life is long gone. But suddenly I am - again. And all of the days that I spend smiling and doing things for others fades away… my job, my polite way of always looking down at the ground when passing strangers, all of the times I hold my tongue - - that all disappears and suddenly I become a real person. A real person to me. Bent and destroyed. Damaged and broken. And in a way, beautiful and real.

1970s and a Killer Smile

I was born in 1972 which according to Jimmy Page, was when Led Zeppelin hit their artistic peak. I’m definitely drawn to the 70’s… not only because I don’t remember a whole lot the first 7+ years of my life, but also because the 80's were so vastly different. I mean, we went from polyester bell bottoms to neon bracelets and wearing bras as outerwear. I wish I had been born just a few years earlier so that I could have fully experienced the 70s. Don’t get me wrong, I love the 80s, but the 70s will always be a mystery to me, hence the fond and foggy memories that I fill with whatever fancies me. I have a actual few memories… one is actually based on a photo of me when I was about 4 years old, we'll call it 1978. Polyester bellbottom pants (patterned, of course) and an Orange Crush logo t-shirt (hell yes). Pigtails and a big smile on my face. Where was I? I have no idea. I just love that picture of myself. I won’t even pretend to remember when it was taken. My other memory was when I was about 5 or 6 years old at the county fair. My mother, recently divorced, introduced me to what I still remember to this day, as a very good looking man. I’m talking blond curly hair, shirt off, tan skin and cut-off jeans (white). And a killer smile to boot. I'm not sure why I remember this person as someone that I would fuck today, but there you have it.  Perhaps I embellish.  We went on the ferris wheel with him - - who was the other half of my we? I can only guess my sister, 3 years my elder. All that I can remember is sitting next to him, his arms outstretched over the back of the car…. and him, smiling. Always smiling in my memory. In the fantasy of my memory he was my mother's new boyfriend. My new daddy. Now I remember him as my mother's hot, younger boyfriend, she was a cougar before cougars even existed. In reality, I don’t know who that man was. I never remember to ask my mother…. mostly because I don’t want reality to ruin my memory. I mean, as real as he seemed and as vivid as my memory is…. what if it wasn’t real? What if my little mind made it all up? I would rather keep that killer smile alive than get more details from my mother and kill the fantasy. I know I saw him. Even if it was just in my memory.

Can't Stop

So there I was, making dinner, drinking beer and listening to my iPod. Alice in Chains comes on… there was something about the buzz that I was feeling added to the smell of tofu stir-fry… I suddenly found myself going back years and years. To a time that I barely remember (not for lack of trying). I found myself in the middle of a slow motion memory… and then it hit me - - it wasn’t a memorable, happy time at all that I was reminiscing about. It was when I was stripping. 27, 29-30, and then 31 years-old. Good times? Not so much. But there was something about it… every time I hear an Alice in Chains or a Soundgarden song… Red Hot Chili Peppers, Fiona Apple, Cardigans, Stone Temple Pilots, Garbage… too many to name, really. But I remember my “sets.“ Basically - - any time I'm buzzed and I hear "my music," I think back to this time. It wasn’t a great time in my life. But wasn’t the worst time, either. How can that be? Shouldn’t I be ashamed… shouldn’t I feel regret? I simply don’t. It was the only time in my life that I was in control of situations that were far beyond my control. I understood it. I knew why those men were there… honestly, they were there for the same reason that I was. They were lonely. Who was I, and who am I, to judge? What a way to connect… it was awesome. It was drunken magic. It was daylight outside - - but the second they walked through the front doors it was instant night. Instant hot girls (ok, not always, but keep in mind, it was dark!), instant fun, instant anything they wanted. Where else can you go for something like that? I still remember so many of the other girls… what their favorite songs were… their lucky dresses, favorite shots to have before they went on stage. And I was one of those girls. I truly was. I was Trina. And then I was Nadia. I talked to men I didn’t know. I took off my dress for them. I smiled, occasionally. I had a great time. And when the great time stopped - - I stopped. Three different times I left, and two different times I went back to eventually move on to something else. I went from being unemployed to winning amature night and on to events that would change my life, over time. Some good and some horribly, horribly bad. It all happened and I was there, for the most part, to witness it. And I won’t apologize.

A Graduation... of Sorts

The best compliment ever tonight…. A bartender asked me if I was a bartender. Ahh… if only. I told her no, I am not a bartender, I just really like to drink. I found out she is only 23 years old. Left home when she was 13. I don’t know if I was interested in her story because she was cute, because I was jealous, or because I just wanted to know. Envy? How can a 36 year old envy a 23 year old? Hmm…. I’m not quite sure. I would like to think that none of the above applies, and chalk it up to pure admiration for a bright, independent, smart and all around a bad ass chick. More power to her. Yes, pure admiration. Glowing praise.

And then the DJ played Joy Division… I have this thing about showing my age. I love the fact that I was at a bar in Oakland, sitting by myself, drinking this great drink made by a great bartender, and listening to Joy Division. Does it really ever get any better than that? Perfect evening.  Perfect nothingness.

Home to my klonopin and the rest of my eggplant parmigiana which I didn't even bother to heat up - - it was that good! Just like being in love.  Well, almost.  Minus the penetration.  Kidding.  Sort of.

And so I went to sleep, a happy, happy girl - nay, a woman in my mind, after 4 Jeremiah Weed sweet teas and my usual klonopin. For I have truly graduated from the “looking for” stage to the “find me” stage. A great place to be. Now just find me. Just find me goddammit. 

Karma Hit

I thought I had something to say…. But then I took another half of a klonopin. Is it because I don’t have to go into work tomorrow until noon or is it because I just wanted that feeling… that dazed, dislocated feeling…. I don’t even feel like I’m breathing. I really only need 1 pill to block out the neighbors fighting downstairs. I need about 2 or 3 beers, 1 pill and a pillow over my head to block out the sound of my 300 lb neighbor upstairs gettin’ some. I sometimes wonder if they will fall right through the floor and crush me. What a horrible way to go. At one point, I think there was overlap and it was coming from downstairs and upstairs at the same time - - it was all of 8pm. The woman downstairs was yelling, the woman upstairs was moaning and the 2 men were both grunting - for different reasons of course. I felt like…. I felt like I was beyond “stuck in the middle.” I felt like my f’ing head was going to explode. I started saying why me… and then I realized that maybe this was karma taking a hit out on me and that I should retrace my steps to figure out why, why, why I was and am in a living hell. Not only am I in a living hell, but I pay to live here. I suffered through it - - sans pills because I had an interview in the morning. Big mistake. Huge. Almost as huge as the man upstairs… and by the way, there was no moaning the second time around at 2:30am…. It was just bang, bang, bang, thump. Bang, bang, bang, thump. I’m not sure what the thump was, but I’m going to go ahead and assume that he is not a skilled lover. Shake it off… I’ve got to shake it off.

The interview…. Well, I don’t know how it went because I have not heard any feedback yet. 3+ days and still radio silence. I wonder, is it me? You know when people tell you “it isn’t you” and “it’s their loss” that they are full of shit, right? I know it’s me and it’s both of our losses. But, we’ll see. I still have an 8% chance that I might get a call back for a second interview. The fact that I saw people from the office at Oktoberfest that same day (later that night) could either work in my favor or completely destroy my credibility. It’s out of my hands. I have to learn not to dwell. That’s a tough one.

I’m just such a dialogue whore…. I just want dialogue - tell me yes, tell me no - gasp, maybe explain it to me. But tell me something. I hate silence. I guess that’s perceived as bad…but like the 63 year old I met the other night said to me, “fuck ‘em.” Now, I’ve heard that before, but he was really speaking to my soul, speaking to my self-doubt. And I appreciate that. But still. There is a part of me that just wants to go back to certain times…remember and even relive them all over again. Bathe in what I felt at that very moment.... Was it a trashy make-out session in the financial district of San Francisco? Hell yes. But it was great. I felt alive. I felt like me. Do I have to do everything by the book? Whose book is it anyway? I’m not a bad person…. I like to experience things. I like to feel something unexpected… something that takes you away from where you were earlier that day…. And there you are. You are right where you want to be. And then it ends and you have to create a new place for it to fit in. And then time occurs and it fades away. I want to hang on for as long as I can. Quietly hang on... And then loudly let go. Not because I want to, but because it’s just too much for me. Before it becomes a - - god forbid - -  an issue. Gasp. "People - we have an issue here!"  Before that happens… I go cold and simply press delete. That’s what happens when you intertwine a surprise moment with a jaded past…. No choice but to let it go. Maybe not right away, but eventually. And maybe even take a karma hit for it.

When Purse Hooks Rule The World

Bars with purse hooks. Love ‘em. In California, 7 out of 10 bars have purse hooks, according to my unofficial study. I love purse hooks. It’s like the bar is giving me a big hug. Telling me that yes, it’s okay for you to be here. You don’t have to keep your purse hanging over your knee or risk someone stealing it from the back of your chair. The first thing I do when I go to a bar that I haven‘t been to before, is look under the bar for a hook. If they have hooks, I know that I’m home, albeit temporary. I relax. I order a drink - - like I’m supposed to be there. I savor the moment. My moment. After a hard day… after a long night (I tend to go to bars during the day, though in California not a lot of bars open before noon). If they don’t have hooks under the bar I start looking around for other things that are missing in the bar. I start to imagine a very sterile bathroom, with poor, too bright lighting, water splashed all around the sink (you can’t set your purse down in a puddle). I immediately go on the defensive and assume that the bartender is going to be an ass and get annoyed when I tell him/her how to make my drink (I‘m very particular). The music becomes too loud… suddenly my purse hanging over my knee weighs 50 pounds. I could put it on my lap, but the risk of it falling off is too great. Have you ever had the entire contents of your purse spill out onto the dark, spilled-drink soaked floor before? Try looking for your MAC lipstick next to a smelly sneaker and a beer soaked napkin. No thank you. I prefer purse hooks. Purse hooks are simple. Purse hooks are elegant and welcoming. Purse hooks will make me order a second, third and perhaps fourth drink. So come on bars - - not only the remaining few without ‘em in California, but around the country, around the world, give me some hook. I’ll stay longer. I’ll spend more money. I’ll chat up the guy next to me, get him to spend more money and tip you more. And I’ll come back. Again and again, I’ll come back. And every time I do, I’ll sit down, I’ll lean over and look under the bar, and I’ll hang my purse on a hook. Right were it belongs.