Nicotine free

Adjust your eyes to the brightness.

The breaks are cold. You walking through the hall in your pajama bottoms, wondering if I’ve moved at all. (I have not. I don’t know what to do.)

Anxiously. I should get out more. But I think I’ll just eat a cheeseburger. Apply for some jobs. Chew some more gum. & wait for that moment. It’s close.

IVoted2020

It didn’t excite me like it usually does. I’m not buying a celebratory cake. I’m less optimistic than I was 4 years ago on this day. & definitely more incredulous.

I voted for Joe Biden because even if it doesn’t matter, my opinion does. & it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. Just me.

It doesn’t have to follow any logic. I don’t have to explain it to you. Find meaning in the things you think don’t matter. In what you don’t understand.

Election days are my favorite. There is an energy as the days get closer that always builds up as the days start to feel like weeks before the first Tuesday in November. Presidential years are even better because I bore easily. & have really high standards that no one will ever meet. Except maybe the figment of Obama.

But the uncertainty is unbearable. & I’m holding my tongue. Historic moments are spontaneous. & I instantly regret my decisions to stay indoors.

Tl;dr I want to pay attention to detail in my present comfort zone. & not have to be nice. But I’m hard on myself.

Natural History

I forgot to tell you.

I turned off all my social media notifications. I much prefer screaming into a void to the tune of a symphony for a crater, then catching up on the commentary. I’ve never been a performer, I just want to capture things.

Sometimes it’s my face. Or half of. Or my words. & I remind myself these are your stupid rules. & that no one actively hates you. Stop being insecure.

In lieu of being strange & wonderful in rose colored clouds of vapor, I’ve been writing, but you have to find it. & making art out of to do lists. Publishing copy. Teaching my friends (& strangers) how to build websites. Volunteering. Reading. Taking deep breaths. Sleeping too much. Procrastinating. Forgetting. Making lists. Distracting myself.

I’m worried.

I’m hopeful.

Will revert after Tuesday.

Always a bridesmaid

I guess they wanted to hear about how terrified I was, waking up in a fog the next morning, struggling my way out of the waterbed as I realized my nose felt broken. & I was naked. Alone. In a city I didn’t know. With no friends. I got in my car and drove through west tx. They kicked me out after that.

& that was the first time I didn’t go to the police because I didn’t want to be forced again.

~that girl on the internet

This state we’re in.

Everything takes twice as long. 11:11 feels longer than a minute. Everyone is impaired. Foggy. Raw. Sensitive.

I am not Kate Bush. & my voice is shaking.

Sneaking side eyes & trying to remember to breath. Or feel. Something or anything. Everything. Nothing. I feel, staring at walls.

He said he didn’t see you. But he lies. & this is a dream.

Soon. In another universe; which they have almost found, things will be different.

Logan. Meh.

Dec 8 2019

Watched Logan’s Run for the first time & I have so many thoughts. Like:

Why do they live in a mall?
& what was the point?
Why do the people who help them run not run themselves?
Who is passing out these Ankh keys???
They have teleportation Tinder but their cars are basically rollercoasters?
Why can’t Logan 6 actually hit anything when he shoots?
& if they aren’t being reborn then isn’t he just Logan?
What ARE cat’s 3rd names?
Box.
WERE THEY EATING PEOPLE?
This was a comedy, right?

~

Things I did enjoy about this terrible, awful, piece of sci-if trash that did not have Sean Connery in it:

The ruined senate chambers overrun by cats.
Box.
No means no.
The old man’s ramblings that made more sense than the rest of the script.

That’s it.

Save draft

The drafts & trash bin are my real diary. So rarely published. Or reviewed. My words annoy me. So, I get it. I feel neurotic when I’m at my best. & I think you have a complex. Just remember to let it go.

She should be nicer. More present. Tonight I played my flute. In tune.

& last week I got a keyboard from an estate sale. I’ve been messing around. But I have to be in the right mood. It’s felt unwanted.

My plants are still alive. They look healthy. Henrietta too. She lives in a doll house.

Been feeling red lips. Power moves.

Ps get out. More. & finish stuff. & pay attention to details.

Happy Birthday

Things I have given myself over the past year for my birthday because I am incredibly fortunate & have a beautiful life despite us all being doomed sooner or later:

Freedom from the corporate world
Glossier
A legit corset.
Plants.


A subscription to nicotine gum.
Fuck Trump Lipstick
Chocolate brown hair dye.
Green hair.
Pink hair.
New tweezers.

A strawberry dress.

Happy 37.

& Maybe I’ll finish learning spanish now. 

As an adult, I learned English was my mom’s second language.
& that living through Chicano history in San Antonio was complicated for a girl wanting to fit in.

She never talked to me Spanish. I was an Oswalt, not a DeLeon. I wouldn’t be made fun of for my accent or the way I pronounced things. I would not be lost in translation.

She was a different ethnicity, a minority in this country. The first thing they made her forget was her language. The first thing I’d be good at would be communication.

The pressure to just be normal makes sense.

I forgive her for barely teaching me the bad words in spanish. For not being Louder. For not knowing how to fight back. She found her own way as a young mom taking a job at SMCISD working directly with parents who spoke Spanish. She could speak it when it mattered.

& maybe she was protecting me the only way she knew ho.w. & maybe teaching me an important lesson in empathy. She was trying to make the future better for me, & for others, & ultimately the thing that made her feel different is the thing that defines so much . I learned perseverance from the best.

I see clearly the privilege my mom gave me with a white last name & fair skin. But I am forever proud of her maiden one. & her inability to burn.

Read about this piece of forgotten history below.

Forgotten history: Chicano student walkouts changed Texas, but inequities remain

 

Here’s to you.

HERES TO YOU

On day three of deliver-everything-self-quarentine, I traumatized the pizza delivery driver.

Apparently they are leaving pizzas on wrapped present boxes at your door when you click the no contact delivery option.

I have been waiting for this moment for years. I don’t have to put on pants. My dogs won’t go crazy by the doorbell. I don’t have to talk to anyone.

But I watched through my window, a guy standing in front of my house, exactly 6 feet away from the door. I yelled from inside, “cool! Thank you!”

He lingered.

My dogs smelled him or sensed him& went crazy.

I said again from my Covid free indoors, “thank you!!”

“I need the box”

Shit. This guy doesn’t get the hint. I have to wear pants instead of bathing suit bottoms for this? I ran to my room all the way on the other side of the house & threw on a dirty skirt & finally opened the front door & stepped barefoot onto my front lawn.

“Uhh, you can leave.”

“But I need my box back.”

“What box? Do you wanna watch me eat the thing & give the pizza box to you?”

“No, I need the box.” He points a few times nervously that makes me feel like he wants very badly for this box to return with him. “It’s… it’s under the pizza. We can’t touch it or put the pizza on the ground.”

“What the shit kind of no contact delivery is this?! I had to put on pants. My dogs are freaking out. I have ASTHMA. The world is ending. Put the pizza in a big bag next time & just GO. Tell your boss.”

“Yes ma’am.”

We stared at each other but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I waited for him to leave.

“Ccccaaaan I have my box now?”

“Oops. Sorry. Here ya go.” I handed the stupid cardboard box wrapped like a Christmas present to him.

I went inside. I washed my hands. I opened my pizza & then I realized I’m wearing a 50 year old t-shirt that is paper thin & you can totally see my boobs. I look like a punk rock Amelie & sound like an 80 year old toad that chain-smokes.

That poor kid is gonna have a serious Mrs. Robinson complex. Sorry pizza dude. I hope I get a song out of it.

Kind of Rough

Rereading & cringing. I try to capture moments but I’m failing lately. It’s just less when I don’t share. Or care. So maybe I won’t.

But it’s really feeling off.

& I can’t read because I have so much to say.

& that game just sits there.

Things that are covered in dust. ^

I’ll keep walking & reading this page over & over again. Like a skipping record, eventually someone will hear it.

I need a tattoo.