This past weekend, I indulged myself in going to 2 parties in the OC. The first was a jungle party, for which I dressed up as a bush...aka...going naked with some strategically placed leaves. The 2nd was a bbq/pool party. To which, ironically, I showed up fully clothed and bikini-less. Moving on. At party number 1, I ran into my entire past. I quickly went from present day, to the summer of 2005. The best summer of my life. Whenever you run into your past, you're instantly pushed into the glorious "remember when" conversations. It was these conversations that reminded me of just how daring I once was.
"Remember when we spent the entire summer with red plastic cups glued to our hands?"
"Remember going into work hungover...everyday?"
"Remember the time I passed out in your old apartment in the kitchen with that bottle of tequila?"
"Remember when we made jello shots...and you finished the entire bowl of jello?"
Maaaaaaan those were the times. Those were the days when a migraine wasn't a pain in the ass...it was a sure sign that you were a hero. A hero of liquor. You were made of steel.
It was a time when there were no worries. No bills to fuss over. Only school to focus on. As I stood in the middle of that party wearing nothing but leaves, I began to realize something dreadful. I had somehow grown up a little bit. And I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. I managed to stay sober during the party, realizing that the crazy girl I used to be was slowly escaping me...and I had to get her back.
The next day, I made an appearance at party number 2, and ran into a chunk of the same crowd from the night before. It was like marathon party weekend. It was incredible. I quickly downed a shot in an attempt to bring back my 'crazy girl' spark. It didn't work. Not even a buzz. At one point during the night, I was sitting on a couch with some of my closest friends staring off into the backyard. There were 2 teenagers making out. Both drunk off their asses. One of them without a shirt. The other must have had some beer goggles on, because there was no way a guy of his calibre would've landed her under normal circumstances. I remember watching those two, and thinking, 'what idiots.' They're going to wake up with a hangover filled with regret. It was at that moment that my friend laughed and said, "Erika, that was totally you a year or so ago." And she was right. That WAS me. Carefree in the middle of a party living in the moment, because that was all that mattered then. What had changed so much?
I talked with my mom about this fear of mine. She always seems to have an answer for these sorts of things. She explained to me that she was head over heels in love with my dad and planning their wedding at my age. Before that, she was the party queen. There wasn't anything that she wouldn't do. She told me that I still have a lot to get out of my system before I'll truly be ready to settle down. This gave me hope. It gave me hope that there are more shots to be had. More couches to pass out on. More beers to down. My time is not up.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
play by play
I ran into a punk teenager in the middle of a dark alley. He spat gum in my face. When I tried to push my way into him to walk away, I realized that he was made of stone. And he was mocking me. And I was stuck there...in that cold alley....staring into his heartless eyes.
That didn't really happen to me. Nonetheless, that's how it feels. I run into that punk teenager everyday when I sit down and try to write something thought-provoking. Hell, I run into him when I try to write anything I remotely care about. The fire that used to occupy my brain has fizzled out. I don't even get the same rush from caffeine anymore, and alcohol is starting to lose its flare. This is my attempt to write about absolutely nothing in the hopes that it'll turn into something meaningful..maybe even cool.
Here it goes.
I woke up momentarily at 5:30 this morning. Not because I wanted to. Because my alarm clock made me do it. I decided that I am mightier than the clock, so I promptly ignored it and "rested my eyes." "Resting my eyes" always turns into "Oh my god I slept through my alarm I'm such an idiot and I'm so going to be late." I don't know why I don't accept this fact. Maybe because if I did, I would have darker circles under my eyes. Maybe it's meant to be this way.
Wake up at 6:00. It's difficult to find the motivation on this particular day. It's hard to talk myself into taking a shower. In a moment of delirium, I convince myself I can go without, even though I hadn't graced the presence of the shower in at least a whole day...and in this world of Purell and paranoia, I could potentially be seen as a modern day cave woman if I ditch the shower.
As I get ready, my bangs piss me off. They haven't been trimmed in over a month. I blow dry them, and they don't lay right. I could have pimples all over my face, but if my bangs aren't right, it throws everything off. I consider pinning them back for the day. I realize that I have a high forehead, and I remember that that is the reason that I have bangs to begin with...to cover it up. If I had lived during the Elizabethan era I would've been considered royalty or at least gorgeous with my high forehead. Present day, I just better know 20 different ways to style my bangs because that forehead cannot be seen in public.
Can't wear jeans today. It's too hot. Sitting all day I'm bound to chafe since I'm too lazy to do crunches at night. I decide on a pair of capri pants. I should've tossed them months ago because the fly no longer stays up, so I scrounge around for a long shirt to cover up the mishap.
It's the day of Michael Jackson's memorial. KIIS FM plays MJ music on the radio. I'm stuck in traffic on the way to work in the MJ traffic jam. What the hell. I pull the window down and blast the MJ hits. The neighboring cars must think that I'm on the way to the memorial service...the concert of the century. When in reality, I'm just playing the game..the traffic game, and if you can't beat em', you join em.
That didn't really happen to me. Nonetheless, that's how it feels. I run into that punk teenager everyday when I sit down and try to write something thought-provoking. Hell, I run into him when I try to write anything I remotely care about. The fire that used to occupy my brain has fizzled out. I don't even get the same rush from caffeine anymore, and alcohol is starting to lose its flare. This is my attempt to write about absolutely nothing in the hopes that it'll turn into something meaningful..maybe even cool.
Here it goes.
I woke up momentarily at 5:30 this morning. Not because I wanted to. Because my alarm clock made me do it. I decided that I am mightier than the clock, so I promptly ignored it and "rested my eyes." "Resting my eyes" always turns into "Oh my god I slept through my alarm I'm such an idiot and I'm so going to be late." I don't know why I don't accept this fact. Maybe because if I did, I would have darker circles under my eyes. Maybe it's meant to be this way.
Wake up at 6:00. It's difficult to find the motivation on this particular day. It's hard to talk myself into taking a shower. In a moment of delirium, I convince myself I can go without, even though I hadn't graced the presence of the shower in at least a whole day...and in this world of Purell and paranoia, I could potentially be seen as a modern day cave woman if I ditch the shower.
As I get ready, my bangs piss me off. They haven't been trimmed in over a month. I blow dry them, and they don't lay right. I could have pimples all over my face, but if my bangs aren't right, it throws everything off. I consider pinning them back for the day. I realize that I have a high forehead, and I remember that that is the reason that I have bangs to begin with...to cover it up. If I had lived during the Elizabethan era I would've been considered royalty or at least gorgeous with my high forehead. Present day, I just better know 20 different ways to style my bangs because that forehead cannot be seen in public.
Can't wear jeans today. It's too hot. Sitting all day I'm bound to chafe since I'm too lazy to do crunches at night. I decide on a pair of capri pants. I should've tossed them months ago because the fly no longer stays up, so I scrounge around for a long shirt to cover up the mishap.
It's the day of Michael Jackson's memorial. KIIS FM plays MJ music on the radio. I'm stuck in traffic on the way to work in the MJ traffic jam. What the hell. I pull the window down and blast the MJ hits. The neighboring cars must think that I'm on the way to the memorial service...the concert of the century. When in reality, I'm just playing the game..the traffic game, and if you can't beat em', you join em.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
the humbling automobile
I bet you can't find one person who wouldn't agree with the idea that the sight of a ferrari or mercedes screams "confidence." Yes, confidence. Well, my friends, I happen to be that one person. To me, confidence is driving my car out in public.
You see, I drive a Ford Escort from the year 2000. Not bad, right? Let's throw in a cracked windshield. When I say cracked, I mean a thick gash across the entire window. Everyone's got spare change in their car, correct? Well so do I. Except I have a habit of only drinking out of leaky glasses in my car, so my cupholders are filled to the brim with gooey leakage. And in this gooey leakage, one can always find a handful of coins. Now let's just say that you're going to the beach. You park at the meter. You need a dollar in change just so you can park your car for 15 minutes. I have actually considered reaching into my goo-filled cupholders for change...but alas...the change is 50 cent coins, and arrowheads. Nothing useful whatsoever to the society in which we live.
Oh, confidence. It takes a lot of confidence (and sometimes arrogance) to drive my car around in public.
Getting pulled over in my car is always extremely entertaining in itself. If I'm not speeding, I don't know why I am getting pulled over. Depending on the level of prick-ness that consumes the cop that pulls me over, there are a list of things he could give me a ticket for.
1) Cracked windshield (previously discussed)
2) Broken turn signal (oh it signals all right...the whole thing is about to die out so it clicks about 100mph)
3) Burned out headlight
4) Burned out tail light
I love driving with contraptions in my car, so there's a good possibility that he's pulling me over for using a cellphone, which may in fact just be my GPS system or itouch...but it usually is the cell. When it comes time to pull out my registration, I always wind up handing the cop a 6-inch stack of paper. I never throw paperwork away, and cops make me nervous so my hands shake too much when I leaf through the papers individually so I wind up just giving the whole pile to him. It's at this point that we both realize that I have lost my registration somewhere in the heap, and I must call my dad to have him track down the information that is needed. Back to hand shaking. My hands always shake around cops. You'd think I was growing a marijuana metropolis in the trunk that I was attempting to hide. Cops always pick up on this. He wants to know what I was doing that night. What he really wants to ask, is had I been drinking, because he can't seem to figure out why I'm so nervous...and neither can I.
Back to my car. Taking it in for an oil change is always fun. I start off by apologizing to the technician. Not because I'm always almost 3,000 OVER the recommended limit, but because the person has to sit in my car to move it into the garage. Oil changers always think that I don't know jack about car maintenance...which holds true, but they don't have to know that. They create an entire list of things my car needs and they always look extremely concerned, hoping i'll buy something else from them. They must go to acting class as part of their training, because those looks they give me are always frickin believable. I used to fight with them and tell them I have a mechanic who will take care of everything, just so that they would stop hassling me. I got sick of fighting with them, so now I just say this: "You can do anything you want to my car. But I have $30 in my account..." (which is almost always true).
Oh, Ford Escort. I don't completely loathe you. You have given me thick skin. You get me where I need to go. And I didn't have to pay a cent for you.
You see, I drive a Ford Escort from the year 2000. Not bad, right? Let's throw in a cracked windshield. When I say cracked, I mean a thick gash across the entire window. Everyone's got spare change in their car, correct? Well so do I. Except I have a habit of only drinking out of leaky glasses in my car, so my cupholders are filled to the brim with gooey leakage. And in this gooey leakage, one can always find a handful of coins. Now let's just say that you're going to the beach. You park at the meter. You need a dollar in change just so you can park your car for 15 minutes. I have actually considered reaching into my goo-filled cupholders for change...but alas...the change is 50 cent coins, and arrowheads. Nothing useful whatsoever to the society in which we live.
Oh, confidence. It takes a lot of confidence (and sometimes arrogance) to drive my car around in public.
Getting pulled over in my car is always extremely entertaining in itself. If I'm not speeding, I don't know why I am getting pulled over. Depending on the level of prick-ness that consumes the cop that pulls me over, there are a list of things he could give me a ticket for.
1) Cracked windshield (previously discussed)
2) Broken turn signal (oh it signals all right...the whole thing is about to die out so it clicks about 100mph)
3) Burned out headlight
4) Burned out tail light
I love driving with contraptions in my car, so there's a good possibility that he's pulling me over for using a cellphone, which may in fact just be my GPS system or itouch...but it usually is the cell. When it comes time to pull out my registration, I always wind up handing the cop a 6-inch stack of paper. I never throw paperwork away, and cops make me nervous so my hands shake too much when I leaf through the papers individually so I wind up just giving the whole pile to him. It's at this point that we both realize that I have lost my registration somewhere in the heap, and I must call my dad to have him track down the information that is needed. Back to hand shaking. My hands always shake around cops. You'd think I was growing a marijuana metropolis in the trunk that I was attempting to hide. Cops always pick up on this. He wants to know what I was doing that night. What he really wants to ask, is had I been drinking, because he can't seem to figure out why I'm so nervous...and neither can I.
Back to my car. Taking it in for an oil change is always fun. I start off by apologizing to the technician. Not because I'm always almost 3,000 OVER the recommended limit, but because the person has to sit in my car to move it into the garage. Oil changers always think that I don't know jack about car maintenance...which holds true, but they don't have to know that. They create an entire list of things my car needs and they always look extremely concerned, hoping i'll buy something else from them. They must go to acting class as part of their training, because those looks they give me are always frickin believable. I used to fight with them and tell them I have a mechanic who will take care of everything, just so that they would stop hassling me. I got sick of fighting with them, so now I just say this: "You can do anything you want to my car. But I have $30 in my account..." (which is almost always true).
Oh, Ford Escort. I don't completely loathe you. You have given me thick skin. You get me where I need to go. And I didn't have to pay a cent for you.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Thinking in prose is a pain in the ass
I've always been a tough person to figure out. At least to my parents. When I was a kid, I would break out into screaming tantrums...and always at the most inopportune moment. A quiet evening out to dinner with the family could quickly turn into a scene straight out of the "exorcist." Doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. My tantrums surpassed what was considered "normal" for kids. I'd be completely fine one second, and screaming bloody murder the next. My parents thought I had some sort of disability. They didn't know what the hell was wrong. Down the road, I was diagnosed as having a "wheat allergy." True story. Apparently, too much pasta makes Erika a psycho-path.
When I was in 6th grade my grandfather passed away. Shortly after, I was hit with a wave of depression. Refused to leave my bedroom and managed to cry all the time about everything. My parents figured I was going through depression due to the death of my grandfather, and sent me to a psychologist so that I would have an non-biased peer to help me through my issues. After only two sessions, my psychologist figured out that I was in fact going through depression, but that it had absolutely nothing to do with the death of gramps. It did however, have everything to do with the fact that my parents were arguing a lot. As an adult, you understand arguing in a different way. You see it as a way to sort through problems and come to a suitable solution. Try explaining that to a kid. Arguing is terrifying. I assumed they were going to divorce.
Present day, I have a new "syndrome" I am attempting to tackle. I think in prose. And sometimes wall-posts. Which is a huge pain in the ass. I wish my thought process was more consistent.
Imagine how frustrating it is...
having thoughts that go like this:
"Erika really shouldn't stay up all night watching reruns. Erika could really use a little more sleep. Erika needs to stop setting the alarm at 7:00am and start realizing that her lazy ass isn't going to roll out of bed until 10:30."
Facebook, you are absolutely destroying my thought process.
And I love you, regardless.
When I was in 6th grade my grandfather passed away. Shortly after, I was hit with a wave of depression. Refused to leave my bedroom and managed to cry all the time about everything. My parents figured I was going through depression due to the death of my grandfather, and sent me to a psychologist so that I would have an non-biased peer to help me through my issues. After only two sessions, my psychologist figured out that I was in fact going through depression, but that it had absolutely nothing to do with the death of gramps. It did however, have everything to do with the fact that my parents were arguing a lot. As an adult, you understand arguing in a different way. You see it as a way to sort through problems and come to a suitable solution. Try explaining that to a kid. Arguing is terrifying. I assumed they were going to divorce.
Present day, I have a new "syndrome" I am attempting to tackle. I think in prose. And sometimes wall-posts. Which is a huge pain in the ass. I wish my thought process was more consistent.
Imagine how frustrating it is...
having thoughts that go like this:
"Erika really shouldn't stay up all night watching reruns. Erika could really use a little more sleep. Erika needs to stop setting the alarm at 7:00am and start realizing that her lazy ass isn't going to roll out of bed until 10:30."
Facebook, you are absolutely destroying my thought process.
And I love you, regardless.
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