And though I dreamt since I was a little girl of being a bi-polar, substance abusing, romanticizing artist I realized that that path was not best for me, my family & friends, or my writing. Determined to “find me a again” (<--lame), I set out on a quest to do such.
I’m a Big Kid Now…Wow!
My blog was born from a time in my life that I like to call, “The Time I Lost Me”.
Dear Lord, that’s an epically boring name for such a significant time in my life.
“The Time I Did Things I Secretly Don’t Regret”?
“The Time I Would Sit on Venice Beach with Homeless People and Drink From My Flask”?
“The Time I Wanted to Abandon My Life and Drive Out Into the Desert and Live in a Seedy Motel and Write Poetry on the Walls in Lipstick”?
Though I rarely addressed my “feelings” in the beginning days of my blog (at that time called, “PlasticLA”), I did often joke about certain predicaments that I would find myself in. Situations that could be labeled as “sad” or “pathetic”.
Waking up lying next to a bottle of cheap vodka with mascara running down your face and turning towards the mirror wondering who the hell you were looking at did make for endless writing fodder, but it did not make for a great life.
And I did.
And now I have nothing remotely interesting to talk about.
Being an adult sucks ass.
No longer feeling the urge to drink myself to sleep at 9PM on Friday night, not before calling every I know to announce that I just drank a quarter of a bottle of really expensive vodka that was not mine, that I think I puked up something purple, but I couldn’t really tell, and that I’m sorry for being a narcissist= boring.
No longer chasing after self-centered “artists” who a.) wear three piece wool suits year round in Southern California and stick their thumb in the dirt when stressed out b.) is a married producer that most people believes has the mental capability of killing someone or c.) are car-less and/or jobless and grow patchy beards and nervously twist their unwashed hair= boring
No longer being able to drive through Skid Row at night and press my hand against the driver’s side window, out towards the rows of tents and fumbling zombies, while waiting at a stop light= boring
No longer living in a steel box in down, downtown Los Angeles infested with rats, mutant mosquitoes born from the nearby recycling plant, drug addicts hiding in the alley behind my window and setting fire to abandoned vans in my parking lot, lying awake at night holding myself into a tiny ball and wondering if I was going to see the light of morning= boring.
I miss the those days of twenty-something emotional outbursts and bad decision-making!
How can I possibly have my shit together at 26?!
Hm. Maybe having a therapist when I was 23 actually did help.
Or maybe I just don’t have an imagination.