Cough cough, zombie wink

I'm home sick today and quickly running out of ideas of things to do from my bed. I can't watch anymore tv. If I peruse facebook a second longer, I'll be tempted to stalk an ex which will only give me the crazies. Surrounded by used tissue paper and going mad in 3-2-1...

What to do? For the longest time, my sister has been on my non existent nuts to join a dating website. She said, "Let's put up a profile together!" I was confused. Um, like, share a profile? One's straight and in Newport Beach, and one's gay in San Francisco...send us a wink! "No no, Candi, you make a profile and I'll do it too." Gotcha, that makes plenty more sense.

I click and join OkCupid under the profile, ZombieWhisperer- 28 yr old gay female from San Francisco. Of course I'm a touch nervous that someone will see me and say, "I know that chick! Poor desperate thing." But then again, why are they browsing profiles of the brave and single? The upside to being seen is seeing someone you know. Hahahaaaa...pickaboo, I see you fellow city dwelling singles!

Omg #1. I had NO idea this chick was even into chicks. I see her about once a week and have always creeped on her. A few months ago, I nervously told her I found her inspiring. "Really? That is so sweet. I'm so glad you told me that." I failed to mention that a majority of what she inspires is one dirty thought after another, and a firey jealousy each time I see her holding hands with a new guy. Ha!

Omg #2. This chick plays on an opposing football team and is a total b.i.t.c.h. on the field. No one on my team cares for her, and she is waaay easy to tease when she is foosball flustered. BUT I love what she wrote on OkCupid, and she's not that bad looking when she is sweat and scowl free. She too is into political sex scandals! I want to pee in a stall next to her and tap my foot, then whisper, "I hear your cat has mental problems..."

This is fun. I just sent my first wink, not to either of the afore mentioned, and her profile is not shared with her sister.

You're not tall enough for this ride!

A couple of days ago, I went to a meditation meeting. I love these, but struggle with being silent for a whole 5 minutes. My mind is pretty much a constant carnival of sex, screaming babies, and recipes I'd like to try. It's messy in there, and seductive demons always float in, knocking on the back of my forehead, Come and play with us, Candi...

Someone once suggested asking these demons to sit with you as you meditate rather than playing mental bouncer. As the name suggests, my demons are not nice. They're like my own entourage of mean girls, except they never make me look cool because they're imaginary. So all I get out of this distorted relationship is their incessant sh*t talking. Would you like to meet some of them?

Meet Crow...Mission hipster dyke on a fixie bike doing circles around me on Valencia. She gave herself that name because she HATES that her given name is gender suggestive. Covered in tats. Asymmetrical haircut. Fled to SF from some small town to escape their 'agenda.'

Crow: Hey, you stupid b**ch.
Me: Oh, heeeey Dee. How are things?
Crow: What the eff do you care?
Me: I actually don't, asshole! Why do you flood me, sneering, and hating?
Crow: Cuz you're not a real dyke! You try to fool us with your hair and careless gait. You sleep with men when you think SF isn't looking. You are horrible to your gf's. Your art and 'creativity' is juvenile, and we all know you don't recycle your compost!
Me: Frakin' eh!! OUCH, biotch!! Ugh, can we have coffee to talk about this? Maybe chat and breathe together?
Crow: I suppose…is it fair trade?
Me: I could do fair trade.
Crow: Hmm, I guess.


Eww, I feel sick. I think I just therapized myself via innocent blogging. I feel like I am on the verge of a breakthrough, a burp struggling to surface. And when it does, gaseous insecurities will spill onto my lap. I seriously feel like I'm going to be ill. I want to cry. I need a cigarette and screamo music. Playlist- Slipknot's, My Plague, Deftone's, Shove it, and Distiller's, Idoless. Repeat 2x. Brb.


Crow was enough of a carnival ride for me today. I'll play with the others later. Maybe.

21 tennis ball salute

2 missed calls from my parents can't be good when they know I'm at work. Shit shit. I hope nothing has happened to grammy. I call them back and dad answers...bad sign.

Hi honey, so..uh..today Angel wasn't doing so well and we took her to the...uh..vet. We had to put her down.

What?!?

Ya, I'm so sorry honey. It was pretty bad. And we didn't want to call you while you were walking home or on bart.

So you thought work was better?? Dad, I work with a bunch of boys who tell fart and sex jokes! I can't cry here! Now I have to fucking fake it til 5..which is only in 45 minutes. Does Carly know?

No, she has work and has clients.

And I don't have clients?? I'm sorry dad. I know that must have been hard for you guys, but shit. I just can't really deal with this right now.

I'm sorry...hold on. Mom wants to talk to you.

Alright alright. Fuck.

[crying] He..ello...oh it was awful, Candi.

I know. I'm sorry mom. I just can't deal with this right now. I work with boys and can't cry in front of them. [enter co-worker] Hold on..oh, hi ____, what's up? Hey, the server is back up for ____. Can you call and let 'em know? Okay great, sure sure, I'll call 'em. [exit co-worker] Sorry mom, I'm working. I just can't cry here. They will just make jokes about it.

Well I'm sorry, Candi. It's been a fucked day for us! And don't tell your sister yet; she has clients. We thought hearing it at work would be better for you. We really thought about it. We thought maybe if we told you while you were walking home, you might be too upset to pay attention and get hit by a car or someone might grab you.

I know, I know. I'm sorry you had to go through that. I know it must have been hard for you. I gotta wrap up my day. I'm sorry. I'll call you later. Love you. [click]

I finished an email and walked over to the bathroom. I hung on the counter and cried over our family dog. I have to do this in silence because the bathroom walls are so thin. The guys hear everything. Hence why I also never take a shit there. Crying hysterically in silence is difficult and not entirely satisfying. Slap white make up on my face and I'd look like a distressed pantomime. I hate crying at work, but have learned to master the miming. I splashed some cold water on my eyes and practiced my fake smile. Get over it, Candi. Everything dies.

My defense is to think about life shot on a time-lapse camera, like on the discovery channel where the life of a flower passes in 10 seconds. Everyone experiences death, and everything will end one day anyway. That's why I look at every mug as already broken and every girlfriend as an impending ex. I said goodbye to Angel last week when I left for my plane back to SF. I whispered, I love you, old girl. Be good. I kissed her head and walked out the door with my backpack. So hit me with ebb and flow, macro science, and evolution so I don't have to remember her soft eyes and requited goodbye said through that familiar whimper.

In high school, I proudly displayed her various 1st place trophies. She and I were a team. Flyball, obedience, agility. She was so smart, my friends and I used to joke that she was busy writing novels in her doghouse. Don't disturb Angel, she's busy on her sequel. Damn over achiever...

I've lost a lot of pets growing up, but Angel is a big one. Most of our past legacies are buried in the backyard. To me this was normal, but people always seem shocked and a tad disturbed when I tell them. What do you think of our neighbors, the Smiths? I don't know...but I saw Pat with a shovel and I haven't seen their cat in a couple days. I always thought that if there was a crazy flood, skeletons of rabbits, headless parakeets, dogs, cats, and hamsters would rise to the surface of our yard. It would be like that thunderstorm scene in Poltergeist where those graves slosh about in the mud and the family panics. Thank god Southern California 'storms' are less than memorable. And that I was not named Carol Anne growing up on sacred indian burial grounds.

Angel was special so she won't be dumped with the proles out back. My parents will pick up her ashes in 7-10 days. I asked my mom what she was going to do with them. She said she already picked out a spot on the mantle next to a picture. I wonder if it's that old one my dad gave me for christmas where Angel is super imposed in the clouds with a halo. I always knew one day that cheesy picture would become awkwardly appropriate...

I know my heart will rattle in my vans the next time I step in my old house, and she is not there to greet me with those stinky kisses I love. I won't be able to detach enough to rely on time-lapsed flowers or pantomimed emotions. But I kinda wish I could.

Off with her head

So post the dreaded, yet much anticipated "chat," I just feel numb. I feared I would have lashed into her with the typical why why why?! But I didn't. For the most part, I shared my feelings and acted as a healthy person of society should. Hmm...that was new. No verbal shankings and devilish giggles as they cry?? No emotional hangovers of hating myself, alone and nursing my guilt with vodka fueled razor blade kisses?!

Sobriety has taught me to just accept things. You don't have to agree, but you can't change what is reality. Blah blah blah. I still sometimes want to play dictator and behead all my wives who fail to do my bidding. Why did you not greet me with a tender kiss?? Why did you not acknowledge my feelings and respond accordingly?? Guards! Summon the executioner!

With a death implying flick of my hand, armed guards rush in and seize my wife as she screams her wasted apologies. Look away and sigh, On with it. I adjust my crown and sip my nectar. A drink fit for Greek gods and disgruntled lesbian dictators who wish they were.

Evil memories of breakups past. I really was horrible. The screaming, spilling my best 'victim' tears, administering verbal karate chops. Hiiiiyaaa, bitch!!! I can't do it anymore. It is exhausting, disgusting, and destructive. I end up a rabid canine running in circles, chasing my own tail, snapping and foaming. Dizzy and nauseous with my own self created redundancy.

No more naughty Fido. He had to be put down. Now I sit and feel the pain. Ride it out. I've suffered worse - thanks West Hollywood. While far from perfect, I am desperately trying to bushwhack a new emotional path, cautious to not cut at those in my way.

Cathartically I dive in my writing and painting. I bang on my computer and attack a canvas like a famished hunter spearing a boar. When I was a kid bubbling with frustration, fighting projectile tears, my mom would whisper, "Just get it out, Candi." I don't think she had ever pictured it to manifest the way it often has.

Numb and dumb. Shocked by a brief love affair that ended as quickly as a snapping guillotine.

Band aide, please.