Keep the night-light ON

I've been asked write a fears list, in a guided stream of consciousness format:

1.) The fear

2.) Peel it - why fearful?

3.) What it affects

4.) My associated character defect

With so many fears and so many thoughts and so many feelings and so many of everything, I FEAR I am Bastian in the Never Ending story, but I never find the name for the Childlike Empress. It feels endless, and constantly evolving, snuffing out exit signs and emotional first aid stations.

Current events make the timing perfect or imperfect, depending on my mood.

1.) My recent breakup that leaves me feeling lonely, and missing my bff. Will we have that rom-com moment where, years from now, we run into each other, spilling coffee on respective blouses? The awkward laughter as we dab the stains with a wet napkin, upon which we realize the love is still there. Note - This future tripping reiterates why I watch horror movies. Don't mislead everyone, Jennifer Aniston.

2.) Football season - visual broken record of interceptions I've thrown. Are the girls are just being nice, letting me play QB, but secretly they hate me and wish I'd just serve them water and orchestrate the fundraisers?

3.) Professional - It is time to expand myself, and possibly invest in classes. Do I really love what I do, or am I a fucking black belt in complacency? What route do I take? Do people respect me in the office? Will I lay on a death bed and suddenly realize my calling. Oopsie - 50 years too late, sucka.

4.) Landlady - It is clear our disdain for one another is mutual. Come October, will I have to move? What if I can't find a place as cheap, forcing the roommate option? If I stay, will she continue to scream at her daughter in Tagalog? Will she ever become self aware?

5.) Birthday - Turning 30 in less than a month. Should I plan something? Extreme shame around asking people to celebrate me, when I probably don't celebrate them. Should I just fly to LA, and see old friends in Santa Monica? Or should I go to Harbin Hot Springs, risking a breakdown inspired by the memories I have with Jenna?

6.) Socially awkward moments - Daily reflections of things I've said to my boss, to team members, friends. When that random guy from my meeting asked how I was doing tonight, I told him "I just bought Smooth Move Tea because I feel backed up." WEIRD.

7.) Quitting smoking - I plan to be fully quit sometime next week. By then, I'm hoping the Wellbutrin will grab hold of my neurons, crying out, "Hey, you don't crave these anymore! Addiction button has been disabled!" How the fuck am I supposed to drink coffee, drive my truck, be socially comfortable without them? Is it too late? Do I already have cancer?

8.) Satisfaction - Fear that I will always have that subtle undertone of depression. Think Ghostbusters II, river of slime under the city streets. Why does it take such concentrated effort to see the wonderful gifts behind bitching points 1-7?

This is when I wish I was Benjamin Button. Mom, please leave a surprise note in my lunch bag, telling me you love me. Dad, empty your sock drawer so we can play an ad hoc game of dodgeball.

My temporary resolve in this fucked up interim: Being so glad I'm not an astronaut, sent on a dangerous mission to the moon, only to find murderous aliens who slay my crew, leaving me alone, using the last of the reserve oxygen, while I melodramatically look at a picture of the wife and child I don't have.

You can only feel awesome after that.

Prison Issued Stationary

To the attention of James Jones - Department of Corrections, PA

Dear James,

I was thrilled to receive your letter! Thank you for accepting me as your pen pal. You mentioned you were a 'ticking time bomb' in your 20's. Why do you say that? I have so many questions for you, but am wary being so frank in asking. I do not want to come off exploitive or rude. I am just curious. I want to know about your childhood. Do you have siblings? Have you been in love? What were the events preceding your present situation? Please answer only what you feel comfortable with. Or just send a draft of your autobiography.

In regards to your hand written manuscripts, I would be happy to type them for you. I am not interested in financial gain, but rather helping you become published while learning more about you. You have my word that I will not run with them, or violate any agreed upon terms. Please make copies and send as certified mail, if you have access. We do not want these to get lost!

I look forward to hearing from you!

Best,

Candice Smith

And so begins my recent pen pal relationship with a death row inmate. I have been wanting to do this for years, but always received concerned looks from roomates, family, and lovers. "What if they have someone on the outside who will hunt you down?!" This was a concern, especially when I lived at Grammy's. I imagined her answering the door to a teardrop tattooed visitor. But in my studio, there is no one to toss me a low brow glance, or question their own safety. Sorry landlady, don't look too closely at the return address of my mail!

Feelings I will try not to feel in my correspondence.
1.) Thinking from the perspective of the victim's family, if they knew my interest.
2.) Feeling pressured to ensure publication before he dies.
3.) Becoming too attached, invoking a sadness when he is executed.

I desperately want to find that moment, incident, or trigger that turned thought to action. Assuming he did do it, why was it his most rational option at the time? Even in my darkest moments, swimming in disturbing fantasies, I've been able to keep my loose screw in check. Beyond the obvious sociological reasons, where/what/who was the turning point for James?


James Jones, 70, Pennsylvania Dept. of Corrections

Mind the gap!

And off she went to Spain to participate in the running of the bulls, where she was trampled to death in a dirty street.

The bus lost control just as he was crossing the street, and he was killed on his way to his new gf's house.

Saddened by her poor social decisions, she turned to heroin to deal with the loss of a great friend.

Hi, my name is Candi, and I'm a fictio-holic. Four years ago, a WeHo love went sour, and I made up a hateful story about her to numb the pain. At first it was just for fun, giggling about how her cats died and how I seduced her father. But as later social mishaps happened, I began to rely on fiction use more and more, inventing dark and elaborate stories about the one who hurt me. Their 'trauma' became the neosporin to my wounded heart. What I thought was healing was really manifested escapism.

A moment to qualify and claim my seat as a fictio-holic. Night after night, I lied to friends and family. I told them I had a great day and was gonna cap my evening doing something nourishingly creative. "That's great to hear, Candi. We're so proud of you."

Upon entering my house, I ducked into my bedroom. Shut the door with my shades drawn. Turned on a dull light and got high. Sometimes I would record audio sound bites, dictating their misery. Other times, I would journal and draw pictures. But my favorite vehicle to use is my guitar. Night after night, I injected lyrics that I thought were the solution to my social apocalypse. I knew NO other way to deal, and I eventually began perceiving my stories as true reality. The real world that everyone else operated in was, to me, a distorted hallucination. My fiction abuse worked well for me until I'd run into the subject of my story or song, or hear about them via the gossip of others.

What do you mean they are 'happy?!' I last heard they went blind after a pencil sharpening whoopsie daisy! As the worlds of 'reality' vs reality began to collide, I started having physical reactions. Dry heaving and extreme paranoia in public places became more and more common. To get a quick fix, I would journal morbid wishes on my steering wheel while driving. It became hard for me to leave my house, and I eventually stopped entering certain neighborhoods, venues, and bars. My world became smaller and smaller, and my imaginations louder and darker. I lost friends as a result of these mental movies on replay. Movies no one had ever seen but me.

Today I'm 8 months chemically sober, and one week fictio-sober. It's become too difficult to practice fiction without mind altering additives. As a result, I'm rebuilding bridges and putting out a hand to those that 'were' six feet under or brutally maimed. Rise my zombie friends and former lovers! I want to put a band-aide where I once stabbed you with my imaginary switch blade.

I'm going to try with a pure heart to not use. I want to stay present in a world free of social war faring cartoons. Practicing non fiction is the only way I can be of service to others. This is the path I want to pursue, one day at a time.

I am so grateful to be here and to forgo this new journey. I want to welcome those that are new and wish happy birthday to those celebrating. Thank you for allowing me to be of service.

[clap clap]

MC April Fool-izzie

I'm still sick and catching a bus to work. I'm always wary of sitting in the back of bus and muni, because that's where most the 'action' is. Drugs, tagging, hijackings - oh I've seen it. But today, snot riddled sinuses muffled warnings, and I ventured deep into the pit of pub transpo. And wouldn't ya know it, I found me a lil #24 rapper/trickster. That's right, a rapper AND a trickster!


He started by yelling the 'n' word A LOT. He tried busting rap lines that were just mediocre and over done. "We got the money, the money, we be flippin the power the power..." Very T-pain-ish. He was butchering standards of Snoop, Em, and Biggie. I was inclined to tap him on the shoulder, confident that I could out rap him. But while my OG words are bloody raw, filled with pain and destruction, my actual rap execution is horrible. So I rescinded the challenge I only imagined.

I did, however, enjoy his interludes of phone calls to his friends. And he had them on speaker...

[ring ring]

Hello?
Yo yo..I just passed your house and it's ON FIRE!
What? Are you serious?!
Ya man, there's all this smoke and shit.
Really?!
Ha ha ha! April fools!! I got ya, though, didn't I? You thought your house was burning up!
Ya...
I gotta go, on my way to work. [click]

Rap continues: And the pigs be rollin us rollin us, and we be hustlin hustlin...

[ring ring]

Hello?
Yo yo, I'm in town, at the Greyhound station. Come get me.
What? For reals?
Ya, shit man, I'm tired. Pick me up. I'm crashin witchu.
Umm...
Ha ha ha! April fools!! You were ready to come get me though, huh?
I guess.
Haha! I gotta go, I'm on my way to work. [click]

He had an ID around his neck, revealing he works at the Goodwill. I was tempted to follow him in the store. I wanted to tell him that I just arrived via Greyhound to find my house caught on fire. And if he'd help me, I'd sign him to be the biggest rapper MTV had ever seen. I'm positive this guy would have gone for it. Then I'd scream APRIL FOOLS! And run out the store with my own HA HA HA!

But my sickness and senses held me back. I just blew my nose and continued to bounce over pot holes on Mission. Next year...you will be mine, my rapper/trickster. You will be mine.

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.