Journaling

Personal writing from 2012 onward.
Jump to the beginning.

January 15, 2013

There's a ski lodge, but the mountains it's set amongst aren't steep or Alpine. They're wide, gently rolling hills, not suited for skiing at all. And there isn't snow, anyway. It's spring, and the grass is a tender, tentative yellow-green. Cold, sunny, nothing else around. Except the roller coaster.

That's the only way to get there—a roller coaster ride. But it isn't violent dips and loops. The track curves up the mountain with an almost imperceptible slope. What's most remarkable about the ride is how powerful it is. The track is pristine and modern, with two huge steel coils that guide the passenger cart. The whole thing vibrates with a deep electronic surety as it moves (which it does quickly, but not frighteningly so). I feel thrilled to be on it, but safe. I know there is no danger.

There are others with me. Some familiar faces, some strange. A boy I know, maybe once loved... I don't remember who. That's the first part of the dream to slip from my grasp upon waking.

I feel comfortable, and excited about the ride.

We sit side by side, several people across, in the cart. The humming of machinery underneath and around us makes my heart race. And as we take off, the whoosh of air on my face feels like the start of great story.

At the top, we disembark and enter the lodge. We poke around in small groups, or alone. Everything is white and clean and spare. Bordering on sterile. It's pretty up here, but I'm not sure I want to stay. I'm just glad to be experiencing it. Glad to be part of the adventure.

Glad to not have missed out on the ride.

January 16, 2013

Today was root canal day. Well, it was supposed to be, anyway. But it turns out I didn't need one after all.

My dentist numbed me up, and I plugged into my music, sailing away to lands mysterious and exotic in my mind (ok maybe not that exotic; I was fantasizing about Bonnaroo this summer). I was actually doing really well, fairly relaxed and pretty checked out of the demolition going on in my mouth.

Then all of a sudden, my dentist puts down his instrument of torture and asks me if I have a dollar. "Whaa?" I say, my jaw propped open wider than it's been since, well, let's not go there. He unstuffs whatever it was he'd stuffed in my cheek, I swallow and say, "I'm going to owe you a lot more than a dollar when you're through with me."

"No no," he says, laughing. "After you leave here, you need to go buy a lottery ticket. You don't need a root canal."

I blink. I don't understand.

"Looking at your x-rays, it appears you do. But when I got in there, I went really slowly, downsizing my tool as I got through the decay. And it hasn't actually hit the nerve, which explains why it hasn't been bothering you. The chances of that are tiny, and most dentists would have just plowed in. But you don't need it. It's close, and you might some day, but not today. So, go get lottery ticket, because that is a lucky tooth and today is your lucky day."

The best part is I saved some $600 or so. Suh-weet. Though I still have to get an impacted wisdom tooth out in February, ughhh. But today? Today is lucky. So if anyone wants to come rub my Blarney stones, let me know. I'm single, so they're available for that sort of thing.

January 29, 2013

He came to her in a dream. Actually, she couldn't say later whether or not she'd really been dreaming. All she knew was that one minute she was asleep, and the next, a pair of thickly padded headphones was being slipped over her ears. And as that didn't happen much in her waking hours, she had to conclude his was a nocturnal mission, and he, a nocturnal vision.

"Dillon," she grumbled, groggy and grumpy. "What the fuck." She lifted her head and squinted towards the kitchen, trying to make out the green-glowing numbers of the stove's digital clock. Three thirty-seven.

"Shhh," he said, wearing the same absurd grin he always did. It was the one that said he knew precisely how absurd it all was—the celebrity and the money and the idolatry—but also that he loved every last bit of it. He was kneeling next to her bed, his face inches from hers. He looked like he'd been awake for hours days his entire life. He looked like he never slept.

He looked like he never needed to.

"Listen," he said. And with the flick of a fingertip on his mp3 player, waves of sound ripped into her brain. 

But she was just too tired. And what made him think he could sneak into her head like this, anytime he wanted, anyway? She yanked the headphones down and glared at him. He was such a little monkey. That stupid hat, with the shock of unkempt blond peeking out from under the bill. And...was he wearing some kind of furry suit?? She shook her head, hoping to clear it. Half-hoping he'd disappear.

She knew though: once he was in, he tended to stay for a while.

"I already decided I'm not going. Bonnaroo is more than enough. I can't justify it. Fuck, I can't even justify Bonnaroo, but I've already got my ticket, so..."

"Shhhh!" he insisted, with mock anger. He reached forward and opened the headphones back up, raising his eyebrows questioningly. May I?

She sighed and collapsed back onto her pillow. There was no use fighting him. There never had been. She nodded, and he practically squealed with childish glee as he outfitted her head once again. Seconds later, music. 

She closed her eyes. She opened them. He was watching her face. She had to laugh. He knew. 

She let him play what he wanted her to hear, every beat familiar to them both. Every rise, every drop, every last surge and swell. Energy and promise and joy and irony and playfulness and movement and light. When it was over, she spoke.

"You know, my friends think you're ridiculous. Half the time, I think you're ridiculous. And I'm definitely more than a little bit ridiculous for loving you so much." She paused and cocked her head. "Do you even know how old I am?" 

"I don't give a fuck," he said. "Or, you know..." He trailed off and pointed impishly at his hat. His face grew as serious as she'd ever seen it, which wasn't very, at all. "I wrote it for you, you know."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't start that again."

"No, really," he said quietly, and, letting his hand hover above her outstretched body, gestured down the length of it. "For all of this. Your arms and legs and shoulders and muscles and blood and brain. You needed it, and I gave it to you. Come to me, come see me, and I'll give you more, too. You don't even know."

"You don't even know," he repeated.

She looked at him quizzically for several seconds, trying to determine whether he had a single drop of sincerity in his peroxide-bleached head. Then she realized she didn't give a fuck or shit, either. Because whether or not it was true was besides the point. His mind was an IV drip of pure ecstasy that he was inviting her to plug into, again. She could have said no, but she didn't want to. She just plain did not want to.

"Ok, ok," she said, happily defeated. "I'll get a ticket. Just don't say 'yolo'." 

He leapt to his feet in victory, and was at her door a split second later. As he cracked it open, light from the hallway poured in and she saw he really was wearing a furry suit. Some kind of cat. Of course. It dawned on her that his visit was probably one of several thousand he'd be making that night, seducing good little boys and girls everywhere with his promises, his talent.

He looked back at her and saluted. "See you in April." And before letting the door swing shut behind him he added, "Oh, and I will play it this time. You've been more than patient. Now go back to sleep."

As if.

As. If.

January 31, 2013

So, last night—Wednesday night—utterly fucking sucked. Sucked, sucked, sucked.

There's some paperwork that needs to be done for my lawyer, regarding my dad's estate. I've known it needs to be done, but I've been avoiding doing it, because absolutely everything associated with the estate gives me massive anxiety. Like, terrifying anxiety.

I have no idea why. It's just fucking paperwork, for the most part. But it does. Freaks me out like you wouldn't believe. It took me months to get things filed away and in order, to the point that they are now, because whenever I thought about doing any of it, I would have a complete melt down.

Anyway, the latest thing that needs to be done—well, it doesn't matter what it is. It's paperwork. And about a day after my attorney said Hey, you gotta do this, my printer went all wonky. Started printing things all blurry and wavy.

And I was all, of course. And I laughed bitterly to myself, as I am wont to do. And then I printed up a page of some blurry text and took it to my boy Percy to get his expert opinion. And mind you, Percy doesn't sell printers, just ink, so it isn't as if he has some vested interest in me getting a new printer, because god knows, my last one sucked up ink like it was going out of style.

Percy told me I needed a new printer, that the problem mine was exhibiting was basically the ink jet death rattle. He recommended a brand and model that he likes, and that he knew was on sale at Office Max. And I was grateful for his advice, his help, and of course, his humor (because you know I went in there raging, and you know he diffused the situation by being his ridiculous self).

Fast forward to me swinging by Office Max to get the new printer. And by "swinging by" I mean calling ahead to make sure they had one in stock, having some snotty-sounding associate inform me that I'd "better hurry up" because she could only hold it for half an hour, jumping on the train to Union Station, changing trains to get to Little Tokyo, running in to the store frantically because by this time, half an hour had gone by, then schlepping the damn thing home again. And it wasn't huge, but it wasn't light, or easy to carry. My arms were like jelly by the time I got back.

Then I pretty much let the printer sit in my cabinet for two weeks, because I was terrified of it.

Why the fuck would I be terrified of a printer, you ask?

That's an excellent question.

I was terrified of the printer because, in my warped and worried little mind, I had formed a link between it and the unpleasant paperwork I needed to do. The poor thing, which had never done wrong in its short printer life, was guilty by association.

Also, I had convinced myself that once I got around to setting it up, I wouldn't be able to configure it correctly, because I am lousy at those sorts of things. So me being the defeatist that I am, I had already doomed myself to failure.

Are you shocked, yet, that I'm not a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, with this sort of can-do attitude? Just wait.

Anyway, I closed the door on my scary printer, and more or less tried to ignore its existence, only getting spooked by it when I needed to open the cabinet to get an envelope or a rubber band or something. And when I did, you know that printer gave me some dirty looks, suffocating as it was in its shrink wrap and tape. Bitch, let me out. I can't breath in here. And I'm bored. Why don't you write something interesting for me to print up? Why don't you write something, period?

Well, tonight I decided I was ready to face my fear and deal with the damn thing. Only, anxiety isn't something I can just snuff out at will, like a candle. It's more like a snow globe. When my thoughts turn to the panic-inducing trigger—whatever it is—all of a sudden it's like a snow globe being violently shaken, where all those little snowflakes are bits of worry and fear. And I have to wait, calmly, trying not to shake it again, while they slowly fall and settle back to stillness. Then I can very carefully tiptoe in and try to do what I need to do.

So, the printer and I squared off for a couple of hours. This is what that looked like: I'd do something, anything, to try to procrastinate dealing with it. I cleaned. I did some laundry. I wrote some emails. All the while completely preoccupied with the knowledge of what I really needed to be doing instead. Meanwhile, the printer just sat there, wordlessly waiting, indifferent to my tumultuous state of mind.

(Incidentally, if you don't suffer from anxiety, now would be a good time to turn to your nearest loved one and say, I'm so glad I don't suffer from anxiety. I'm reading this blog, and man, this chick has problems.)

Let's fast forward, because holy god has this anecdote gotten long and boring. And this is where you get to be momentarily impressed because, get this shit: I actually unpacked and configured the printer correctly. Like a real grown up. It was amazing. I installed the paper, the cartridges, ran the ink test, and most incredibly, configured the wireless network. I entered in the correct network name and password and it synched up exactly like it was supposed to.

I probably should have stopped there and had a glass of wine to celebrate. But I got cocky and decided I could install the software on my laptop, too.

And that's when my little choo-choo train, which had heretofore been hauling ass down the Ellie Expressway, ran into a tunnel packed with TNT. Boom.

The details are boring—suffice to say, I couldn't get it to work, despite my troubleshooting. Something about drivers and incompatible operating systems.

And that's when I lost it. I just fucking lost it. I felt so useless, so dumb and incompetent, so defeated and frustrated. I dropped to the floor, held my dog, and cried.

For context, maybe, or at least background: I haven't been having the greatest couple of weeks, emotionally. Getting sick derailed my productivity and schedule, which in turn knocked my state of mind down a notch or three. And I've been struggling to get it back up.

What it is, and I know this is 100% pure whining, is that I just get so tired, sometimes, of doing everything on my own. It can be so discouraging when half my day gets sucked up by errands and chores the time of which spent accomplishing could be halved by a partner. I don't miss having a husband. But I miss having someone to share the responsibility of all the time-consuming, exhausting things required of Adult Life. Even just the physical exertion of doing all the shopping, all the housework, all the errands (read: walking, walking, and more walking), all the Chaucer care...it's hard for me sometimes, it really is.

Ugh. So whiny, I know. But there it is.

And sometimes I just don't fucking feel like being a strong, independent, competent person who takes care of herself completely on her own. Sometimes I just want to curl up in ball on the bed while someone strokes my hair and just babies me. Honestly, I don't even want someone to do my shit for me. I like the feeling of developing that, I don't know, grit, as I'm forced to do it all, on my own, all the time. But Christ, sometimes it would be so nice to have someone just sort of care for me a little bit, you know?

So tonight when I broke down, all of that came bubbling up from my stomach to my throat, and then to and through my eyes, in a hot, helpless rush.

And I found myself saying Why? over and over and over. Why, why, why? And Chaucer just looked at me with his eyes as big as saucers, worried and scared and not knowing how to help. He pawed me and he licked my face, and I swear I felt him shift his weight to move a little bit closer to me.

Why, why, why? At first I didn't even know what I was asking. Why what? I thought. So I started asking my ceiling more specific questions. Why is this so hard? Why is this happening? Why can't I do this?

And then came this one: Why am I alone?

And it was as if I'd snapped the last piece into the ugliest, most wretched puzzle ever designed. I said it again: Why am I alone? 

That was it. That was the question that had torn its way up from my belly the minute I got an error window on my computer. Why am I alone?

Why am I alone, if I am so great?

Why am I alone, if I'm as smart and loving and funny and talented and worthy as I believe I am?

And, wouldn't you know it, the other half of my brain had an answer at the ready: Maybe you're really not those things, after all.

And that's where I'm stopping for now, because this post is monster-sized as it is, and I'm exhausted by the writing of it, and by the experience of going through all those emotions again, in describing them.

Ugh.

It's a bad day, not a bad life.
It's a bad day, not a bad life.
It's a bad day, not a bad life.

And with that, I'm going to wash my face, kiss my sweet pup on his smart bump, and go to sleep so I can take another crack at dominating the bogeyman in my credenza my Brother MFC-J425W tomorrow.

January 5, 2013

Monday night, Cameron and I go to La Cita for Mustache Mondays. On the way in, the bouncer asks us if we know it's gay night. I look at Cameron as if scandalized. "Don't tell me you're gay!" I say. "No," he deadpans, "but the guys who suck my dick are."

We sit at the bar, catching up on our lives, plans, and, with our phones, internet stuff we've wanted to show one another. He confesses to loving Call Me Maybe, which delights me to no end, and I regale him with random animal trivia about baby aardvarks whose coloring matches their mothers and a lizard I read about that has two mates (one big and strong, to mate with, and one with a good nest, to raise her offspring with). We chat up the new bartender, from whom I win a bet and a shot (he doesn't believe I'm older than him). Sigh. The music is lame, so dancing's a bust.

We go to LA Cafe, order chili cheese fries, and socialize with tablemates. Greg comes by to walk me home, even though he's exhausted from preparing for a show Thursday. I'm wearing a cropped t-shirt, and it's cold—he insists on giving me his sweatshirt. Before we leave, I get to hold the tiniest of tiny puppies (Chihuahua and Dachshund mix) named Maggie. She's 1/3 the size of Chaucer's head.

Today, sleeping way, way too late, then housecleaning, laundry, and a trip to Pussy and Pooch.

Tonight Greg and I go grocery shopping, and despite the fact that our cart is overflowing, he insists on self-checking. It takes a good fifteen minutes, is a ridiculous pain in the ass due to how much crap we have and how little room there is to bag it, and at the time, I'm pretty annoyed. Later I realize there'll come a day when I'll look back and would kill to be there, in a grocery store in downtown Los Angeles, relatively young and carefree, in the company of a cute boy who thinks it's fun to scan his own produce so he can sneakily combine three kinds of onions.

February 1, 2013

Spyro works in internet security. He's the guy that companies hire to keep information safe, and he's also the guy they turn to when there's been a breach. A few days ago, there was some kind of security leak at an energy company in Brazil. Spyro is asked to get there as soon as possible, and told he'll need a work visa, for the amount of time he's going to be there. In order to expedite his visa application, he needs to file the paperwork and pay the fee in person, at the Brazilian Consulate, located here in LA. The problem is, he's at work on another project in New York, and can't make it in time.

Enter Ellie, proxy extraordinaire, who lives a mere twenty minutes from the consulate office in Beverly Hills.

Now, from the get go, Spyro makes it clear that it's exceptionally important he get this visa. And I'm like, Sure, no problem, I got this covered. And he makes an appointment for me at the consulate for Thursday morning.

Then he starts getting all nervous, double-checking with me that I know where to go and what to do, and when I tell him to chill out, he starts letting on about how, Ok, well, it might not be that easy, that's the thing. They're being tight with visas, and you'll need to convince them I really need to be there. 

And I'm all, Ok, well, a major security breach at an international oil company sounds pretty emergency-riffic, right? Shouldn't be an issue? And he's all, Well the problem is, it hasn't made the news there yet. They're trying to keep it quiet. But yeah, it's big.

And I'm like, LOLwhut? This is starting to feel like a spy mission. How am I supposed to convince them to give you the visa with no evidence of why you need to go?

And he's all, Well, I'm hoping your meeting is with a guy.

And after I recover my eyeballs from where they had rolled to on the far side of my apartment, I'm like, You've got to be kidding me. I'm supposed to flirt my way through this? What am I, a Bond girl?

And he's all, It's just really important, ok? Wear a cute outfit, a low cut shirt or something. 

And I inwardly groan but tell him I'll do my best.

So this morning as I'm getting ready to go the appointment, he starts texting, triple-checking that I have everything, that I'm running on time, etc. And then he tells me that there's some link in an email he's sent me, to a news story or something that contains information about why he needs to go to Brazil (I'm not really sure - I never actually looked at the link). And I'm like, WTF? I'm supposed to bust out my phone in the middle of this meeting, bring up my email and then my browser, and show this person something on the tiny phone screen? 

And he calls me and explains that it shouldn't be necessary, that it's just an emergency measure in case they're going to deny the visa. And he reminds me again how nervous he is, how important this is, etc. And I say I'm not crazy about the pressure, because it feels like the international oil community is relying on my coquetry skills in order to avert some kind of global crisis. He lols and says that's not an entirely far off estimation of the situation.  Then we get off the phone, and I finish getting ready, starting to get nervous myself.

I take a cab to Beverly Hills and enter an attractive, circular-faced building where a security officer escorts me through a polished lobby to the third floor. The consulate is split across the elevator banks, and I approach a wide glass reception window, behind which two consulate employees sit doing paperwork. The wall behind them has what looks like a plastic or maybe resin multicolored map of the world, about an inch thick and several feet across. Everything is immaculate, including the impeccably dressed and busy-looking receptionists.

I suddenly feel very provincial, and clear my throat self-consciously.

One of the receptionists looks at me expectantly and says something I don't catch. "I'm sorry?" I say.

"Can I help you?" he repeats, briskly.

"Oh, yes," I stammer. "I have an appointment. For the consulate. With the consulate. At ten ten."

He looks at me blankly. "For what?"

I frown. Not what I was expecting, which, in retrospect, is rather hilarious: an appointment book with my name in it.

I start fumbling with my papers. "I'm here representing a friend, Spyro--"

"Yes, for what? What is the purpose of your appointment?" the man interrupts me. He isn't rude at all. He's just efficient. He's just cutting through my cluelessness with a practiced hand.

"Oh, for...a visa. A work visa," I mumble sheepishly.

The man points over my shoulder to a hallway bearing a sign and an arrow. Brazil thataway. I say thanks and walk down a short hallway to a foyer containing three electronic ticket machines, of the sort you find at airline reservation counters. After entering in my information, I'm dispensed a numbered ticket, and another receptionist hands me a form.

I round the corner and enter a large waiting room that looks like the DMV, only much cleaner and more modern. There are several windows at which American and Brazilian citizens are conducting business, and maybe a dozen or so people wait their turn in plastic chairs. I take a seat and look over the form I've been given.

The form is the document equivalent of a really strict college professor - one who doesn't bend the rules or give extensions on papers, ever. It's got a rather threateningly worded list of everything applicants must have and must do before approaching the window. Much of it is in caps or boldface or both. Apparently, things need to be filled out just so, or else. I get the distinct impression that if I fuck up, things won't go well.

February 2, 2013

At dawn, I go for a run to Chinatown. I dawdle in the cornfield and on my way home, taking several pink tint Hipstamatics of the sunlight breaking through the various eastern vistas that I pass. I photograph the sun rising over still-sleepy streets, above the already-packed freeway, and through a chain link fence.

Back at home, I shower and dress in jeans, a white button-down, and Converse. I need to return to Beverly Hills to pick up Spyro's visa, but there's no need for fanciness today. Before I leave, I package the rest of his documents up to be FedExed back to him. With a Sharpie I write on his extra passport photo, just beside his face: I'm going to Brazil! 

He texts me as I'm sitting in the waiting area of the consulate a little while later.

You have the visa? 

Not yet.

I'm sooooo esssssited.

Gooooood. ... Just realized they painted the waiting area in the colors of the Brazilian flag.

Duh.

(a few minutes later)

You still waiting?

Yes.

Any cute boys?

Dunno. I can only see their backs.

On the bus ride home, I sit in the far back row. My phone battery is running low, and I've got an hour ride back downtown. I know I can either listen to music or play with Hipstamatic, but not both. I opt for taking pictures, and spend much of the bus ride surreptitiously photographing my fellow passengers, trying out new combinations of lens and film.

A little ways from home, a short, mustachioed middle-aged Latino man boards the bus and sits beside me, in the only open seat left. He's wearing a white polo and aviator sunglasses, and turns his head almost constantly to look down the streets we pass. I angle my phone's camera toward him and sneak a couple of snapshots.

We're passing a Mexican restaurant I often walk by on my way to Home Depot when I feel him tug on my sleeve. I pop my headphones out even though I'm not listening to music, and turn to face him.

The man, who is now holding his sunglasses, asks if I've ever been to the restaurant we just passed. I say no, but that in fact I've wondered about it, since it's close to where I live. He's animated in his enthusiasm and praise of it. Oh yes, very good. Very good. 

I reply with a skeptical tone but also a smile. Oh yeah? Well, I lived in Arizona for many years, so I'm an extremely harsh judge of Mexican food...

Our conversation goes on for another five minutes. He talks quickly and nods often, looking me in the eye when I speak. When I ask where he's from, his voice grows impassioned. He's from Mexico, but it was very very bad there, he says. When you have a business, they come, the criminals, they come and... The man makes a grabbing gesture with closed fists. They take it. You understand? Very bad place. He tells me how grateful he is to be in the states, how it is so much better here, so much safer, and I smile and nod. What sort of work do you do? I ask him. Again, he uses his hands to explain. With a wave of his wrist, he smooths out an invisible surface. I make flooring. Installations of the floor.

I say something about tradesmen having the safest jobs, and when he returns the work question, I mumble vague half-truths about doing creative work. At this, a tall, broad-shouldered black man in a business suit turns to look at me, from where he stands in the aisle.

"Are your rates good?" he asks me, in a booming voice.

I'm caught off guard and unsure how to answer. "Yes," I say, and smile. "I think so, anyway."

The man reaches into his pocket, then hands me a business card. He says something about occasionally needing freelancers to pick up small extra jobs for him. "Email me," he says. Before I can thank him, he continues. "It's nice to see people talking on the bus." He nods approvingly towards myself and my conversation partner, who nods as well.

"Yes," says the Latino man, in a serious tone. "People should be good to one another." When we both disembark a minute later, he shakes my hand warmly before bidding me goodbye and good luck.

- - -

I spend the next couple of hours running errands and collecting the last bits of my outfit for an 80s prom party the next night. Everything I need is in the fabric district, and cheap. $5 for a mesh shirt, $3 for some lace gloves, $5 for some lace nylons, $1 for a headband and bow.

On the way back, I run into an acquaintance walking his dog. I haven't seen them in months, and we chat for several minutes on the sidewalk. His dog is a 180 lb Saint Bernard whom we both desperately wanted to be friends with Chaucer—but each time we got them near one another, they made clear that they had other plans.

Kerry texts in the afternoon inviting me over for rooftop margaritas, but I won't make it over to her place until after seven: thyroid-related exhaustion kicks my ass and I need a nap by the time I return home with my haul of 80s accessories.

She and I, Ross and a friend of theirs go for pizza, then drinks and dancing at a neighborhood dive bar. When Kerry finds out about my upcoming wisdom-tooth extraction appointment, shes offers to take and pick me up from it. I hate asking the favor, as she has precious few days off and I loathe the idea of her wasting one on chauffering me around, but she's insistent. "Done," she says. "Don't even worry about it."

We listen to music and talk in the back room of the bar. When I reveal that I haven't been feeling close to one of our mutual friends, she tells me she hopes I know that I can text or call her whenever.

"Most of the time, I'm seriously not doing anything, anyway," she says. I tell her that she's often on my mind, even if I don't reach out. That I wonder how things are going with her work, and other things she talks about when we get together. I tell her I absolutely know that she'd be there if I needed anything, and she reminds me how loyal she is. The conversation is like a verbal hug between us, and I think to myself yet again how grateful I am to have her and her husband as friends (which is something I've told them both).

We spend the next few hours running back and forth between the bar, the dance floor, and the Ms. PacMan table where Ross and their friend sit talking.  Later, we get burgers and fries at a late night diner a few blocks away, before I head home, walk Chaucer, and collapse into bed a little bit after three a.m.

February 15, 2013

I wake up with a throbbing tooth ache. Rather, an ache where a tooth was, just a week ago. I can't speak to my pain threshold. I've never taken, like, a pain threshold test. But holy god, this seems like some serious fucking pain. I roll over and look at my phone: I've got a group text message from some girlfriends: a gothic cartoon image—girl in a cemetery, boy's arm jutting out of the hallowed ground, offering her flowers. Happy Valentine's Day, ladies! 

I call the dentist.

"Hi, I just want to confirm my appointment for this afternoon at three?"

"Yes, we have you down. Three o' clock."

"Ok, I just want to make triple sure the doctor can come in today? Because I know he had an emergency yesterday. And I'm pretty sure I have dry socket. It hurts really badly..."

"Yes, he's here today, for sure," the receptionist interrupts me, but not rudely. I get the feeling she understands how bad I feel, and just wants to reassure me I'll be ok.

I feed Chaucer and try to read, distracting myself until the painkillers take effect. Cameron texts to say he's just gotten to Union Station, and do I want to get brunch? I tell him I really can't, I'm in a bit of a state, and need to pull myself together and clean up my apartment. He asks if he can bring his bag by—he's staying the night before heading to an AirBnB for the weekend tomorrow. I say of course and start straightening up.

Cam arrives a little bit later and I do some more housework while he prepares for a work meeting, stopping to playing occasional bouts of tug o'war with an ecstatic Chaucer. I call the dentist back to see if I can move the appointment up. I can. I start getting ready to leave.

Mason texts as I'm putting my shoes. There's something seriously wrong with me, he says. I was just thinking about sending her flowers. He's talking about his ex-girlfriend. I lecture him for a good ten minutes as I get my bag, say goodbye to Cameron, and walk to the bus stop. I tell him it took me ages to get over Greg. That I really, really wanted the last guy I dated to want me. But that at the end of the day, the minute someone decides they don't want to be with us, we have start moving on, for our sanity and self-esteem.

I am so good at talking the talk.

As I ride down Wilshire, I take note of the holiday markers: balloons, armfuls of flowers, red dresses. I'm not particularly bothered that I'm spending the day single. I realize I haven't really been feeling lonely, or, like, lacking in that way lately at all. That I've just been in a nice, level state of mind, happy to be spending time with friends, with Chaucer, with myself even. I decide this is a good thing, and wrap myself up in the pleasantness of that thought while I listen to Geographer, wondering why I don't listen to Geographer more often.

My dentist confirms what I suspected: dry socket on the bottom left extraction site. He wedges a tiny, self-dissolving bandage gooped up with some kind of dark red paste into the back of my jaw, which dampens the pain almost immediately. He says I can come back Monday for another application, but in the meantime, I'm going to have to suck it up, and it's going to hurt. He asks whether I'd like him to the extend the prescription for the ibuprofen he wrote me last week, or if I'd prefer more narcotics instead.

In spite of the pain, and in spite of the wad of cotton gauze he's padded my cheek with, I shoot him a look, my eyebrows raised, that says, Do you really have to ask? He laughs, saying, "Alright then. Narcotics it is."

I decide to wander down Fairfax a bit after the appointment. Bobbi is having a themed party Saturday night (umbrella Mafia/prohibition type thing—anything from present-day Jersey Shore to Boardwalk Empire to Sopranos to Bonnie & Cylde, etc. is welcome), and I don't have an outfit yet. After spitting out the wad of cotton in a trashcan, I stop in a vintage shop, where I give the shopkeeper my backpack to hold while I wander aisles crammed with period clothes. A pudgy Jack Russell terrier mix follows me around, sniffing Chaucer on my ankles. It's a great shop with tons of variety, and price points are good; I know I'll be able to find something party-appropriate here. 

But I'm not into it. I get quickly overwhelmed by the options. I see flashy dresses that would be perfect for a gaudy Jersey-housewife. I see wool pencil skirts and high-necked blouses a la Boardwalk Empire. I see flapper dresses. And I see lots and lots of hats.  I can't decide what look I want to attempt, and instead end up buying a tiny, black, frilly skirt-slip thing for $10, thinking of Burning Man.

I keep walking and decide I'm already close enough, I may as well finish the hike to Melrose and go to L'ecole des Femmes. I stumbled across the shop a few weeks ago on my way to Jonathan Adler and fell in love, on the spot, with the entire line of clothing. I've been dying to go back. 

The designer/shop owner herself is there, and she helps me pick out a few dresses and tops. I love pretty much everything, including the designer, who is sultry and French and engaging and warm and funny. She very sweetly gushes over how her designs look on me, and I gush right back over how talented she is, and how lovely her clothes. Impeccable, she says approvingly, as her mother zips me into a black satin dress. Where did you find this fabric?? I marvel.  

The mutual love fest ends with a sale: two dresses, one of which she discounts on the spot. 

On the bus ride home, I text Cameron. It's Valentine's Day. Should we go out to dinner or something? He responds in the affirmative, but says it'll be a while yet before he gets back. His meeting is in Torrance and he's taking the train home. On the forty-minute ride, I think about a blog post I want to write: a letter to my next, as-yet-unmet Valentine. What are you doing tonight? it starts. I bet you're out with a special friend, like me.

Once at home, I shower and change into one of my new dresses. I empty my backpack of the day's swag: the lace slip, a prescription for Vicodin, a syringe for rinsing my mouth, and a pink heart lollipop from L'ecole des Femme. I notice the empty bottle of Vodka Cam left near my sink, and place it on the kitchen island next to the other items. I take a picture of this ridiculous vignette, planning to send it to him, but I can't think of a funny caption. 

After a while, he gets back. I answer the door in my new dress, which he compliments, handing me a pink gift bag. No, I say, faux-scandalized. You did not get me a Valentine's gift! I glare at him, delighted but feeling guilty. I have nothing for him. I pull out a handful of Reese's heart-shaped peanut butter cups, and we unilaterally decide that holiday Reeses's are far superior to the regular ones. I peer back into the bag and see a package of oversized, heart-shaped pink Peeps. 

"These look like pasties," I say.

"Just wait," he says, smiling as he watches me pull the last item from the bag. It's a small red t-shirt which has a round black sticker on the top left shoulder, printed with the words scratch and sniff. The front of the shirt is screen printed with a tone-on-tone Hershey's kiss.

"Oh my god," I say, draping it against me. 

"It's scratch and sniff! For your boobs!" 

I press the fabric to my face and inhale, laughing. I love the shirt and the candy and the fact that I actually do have a Valentine, after all. I give Cameron a hug and make a mental note to take a pic of my goodies before I eat them.

We get dinner at Mas Malo, where we talk about blogging, boys, and Burning Man. When I tell him that the guys we'll be camping with at Burning Man are some of the straightest, most alpha-male dudes I've ever known, he says, "Oh, I'll be painting their toes by the end of the week. I won't have painted toenails, but they will, by the time I'm done with them."

Somehow, the subject of Schoolhouse Rock comes up, and when he finds out I've never seen it, he almost drops his fork. "Oh my god, ok. We're pulling that up on YouTube as soon as we get home. You've never seen any of them??" I'm given a quick breakdown, and when he says that it's thanks to one of those videos that he still has the preamble to the Constitution memorized, I ask to hear it.

"Ok," he says. "But I have to sing it." And he does, right there at the table, which is snugly set amongst several other tables, mostly filled with Valentine's couples. I practically fall out of my chair, and have to steal napkins from another table to wipe the tears from my eyes.

Back at my apartment, he makes good on his threat. As I'm painstakingly irrigating my dry socket, flashlight in one hand and syringe in the other, cursing all the while, he comes in and out of the bathroom, iPad in hand, to show me snippets of cartoons about conjunctions, and interjections, and bills being made into law.

He has every word of these songs memorized, and serenades me as I pop another Vicodin and change into pyjamas.

I collapse into bed, my jaw aching. I scroll through the Instagram feed of L'ecole des Femmes, showing him some of my favorite pictures. Oh my god. Look how sexy this woman is! And she's so sweet and friendly.

Cameron, sitting up in the bed, surfs his iPad. He glances at the images I point out and says, "So when's your awesomeness happening?" His voice is a little bit low, but the words are clear enough.

"My awesomeness?" I echo, pretending not to know what he means. I keep my eyes on my phone.

"Yeah," he says. "Your awesomeness. She's got her whole thing going, her shop, her clothes...what's your awesomeness going to be?"

It's as close to prodding and probing as Cameron will get with me about—well, about everything. And while I'm grateful that he cares, it's not a subject I want to open up right then and there.

So I change it.

We go to sleep soon thereafter, in the same bed, though as always, he sleeps much more deeply than I, and gets there much quicker.

It's not the only skill of his that I envy. 

February 17, 2013

All day I was miserable in the heat, crabby and uncomfortable. Tonight, though, stepping out onto the sidewalk in the late hour, my legs bare in a short dress, the subdued warmth is sensual, and I'm grateful for it. It makes me momentarily miss Arizona, where every summer evening was this exotic and rich.

I move down the street quickly, headphones already in my ears, anxious to catch the train. I love running down the steps of the station in my flat boots. Never the escalator, down or up. Too impatient.

Packed dance floor. We carve out just enough space to move, to let others move near us. So much carefree joy. We could be teenagers, all of us. Every song greeted the same way: heads cocked momentarily as the first notes hit us. Then: recognition—and often laughter—before finding the beat. Crowd pleasing songs. Guilty pleasures.

A couple nearby has their shirts off. They're beautiful, in wild abandon, all smooth skin, muscle, jawline, and anticipation. I feel happy for them, untouchable in the perfect, public intimacy. The ends of my hair are soaking wet and whipping around my face. My dress is a thick woven cotton, almost suffocatingly tight across my chest. The back of it is drenched. He's sweating too, but neither of us cares, and neither of us wants to stop moving.

He's graceful and playful, my friend. Trained as a dancer, confident, truly happy. He wears a sequin-covered tank top and a spiked leather glove on one hand. His joy is contagious and genuine, and I love being around him. We've been growing close in the past few months, and tonight he calls me his "LA girl." We're tipsy and silly and having ungodly amounts of fun, but the moment is lovely and real, and I treasure the pronouncement.

We gab about boys and shoes and sex and boys again. We dance. We vogue. We make a mockery of the music, or the music makes the mockery of us. Doesn't matter. So much fun. We spend ourselves, we exhaust our wallets. We chat up friends we run into. We thank the DJ, a friend, for an awesome set.

We fall into a cab, and I push him out, drunk and giggling a few blocks down, before continuing home myself. Sometimes life levels me, just devastates me with happiness. What more could I ask for, than to love and be loved by good-hearted, smart, funny, talented friends, who can dance the bars down. I could ask for a lot more of life, and I will. But I will never forget what I've got right now, filling my cup to overflowing.

February 20, 2013

Moving through the world becomes like walking through a glass tunnel. Glass above, glass below, glass all around. There's only me in it, and as I pass along, I can see everything just on the other side. I can put my hands to the glass, and my face, but I can't touch or feel or smell or taste anything out there. Scary things press themselves against it, showing their dark, ugly, twisted bodies to me. They shift and morph, sometimes seeming wet and soluble, sometimes wispy as smoke. And I can't hide from them. I shrink to the floor, bury my face in my knees, and wrap my arms tight around my legs. But they just stare at me, waiting until I lift my head to acknowledge their existence, and their power.

They crowd out the beautiful things, which I know are back there, if temporarily hidden from my sight. But they're shoved so far back I can't even make out their shapes in the chaos.

I don't know what it was. I don't know if it was taking Vicodin for a week straight, then plunging off a cliff back into an icy ocean of pure, unaltered physiology. I don't know if it was the nasty surprise I unearthed early Sunday morning, poking around as I sometimes do in places I know better than to go.

But whatever it was, I dropped down, down, down, a globe of the thinnest, most brittle glass, until I crashed inevitably to the floor. And now I'm in a hundred tiny pieces, exhausted by even the thought of trying to gather back into myself the slivers scattered far and wide across the room.

I owe emails, and I owe phone calls, and I have voicemails I haven't even listened to. I'm sorry if you're among those expecting something from me.

I hope to be back soon.

February 22, 2013

On a windy day, on a late afternoon in February, here's what you can do: You can walk the three blocks from your apartment to the store, because you need things. You need a new mop head, because you've been ever so slightly fastidious about your floor lately. You need index cards, because you've started collecting vocabulary words again—because you've started reading again. Words like marmoreal, canebrake, gracile, loblolly. You need toothpaste.

You can walk that three block stretch briskly, without a coat or a purse to weigh you down. You can navigate the rush hour sidewalk with ease, twisting to squeeze past a crush of disembarking bus riders, weaving lightly through exhausted businessmen in suits, briefcases linked with invisible chains to their wrists. You can feel the late winter chill on your face, and thrust your fists deep into the pockets of your sweatshirt, which is zipped tight against your neck. The wind will lift your hair and your spirits, as it always does, and without looking down, you'll reach into your back pocket, feel for a tiny button on the side your phone, and press it once, twice. Yes. Louder. 

You can reach the far side of the main street, where the sidewalk opens widely, and finally get clear of the crowd. You can then be seized by a feeling of such unexpected, unadulterated, and embarrassingly unjustified happiness that it feels as though someone has shoved you from one spot to the next, across several degrees of uncharted latitude, through some unseen continuum of emotion and consciousness, indifferent to where you'll land. You'll marvel at how different this instant feels from the one just before it. You'll swear you could turn around, there on the city street, and see a fast-fading ghost of yourself stepping forward, ready to assume the moment you're in possession of right now.

You'll want to laugh, but instead you'll just take a deep breath, drinking it in with concentration, and with greed.

You can become acutely aware of your senses, your comportment, your gait. Objects will suddenly shed the cloudy scrim behind which you viewed them just a minute ago and come to life, extra-dimensional. Colors will be obscenely vibrant. You'll stare at the people you pass, fascinated, mystified, vaguely aware that what you're feeling is unreal, a trick, a dream, but wishing everyone else would wake up, too. How can they be so calm in the face of it?

It. What is it? What is it?

It's the undeniable certainty that life is devastating—in its beauty, and in its misery. It's the belief that not only will everything be ok—it already is. It's the knowledge that we are so interconnected in our experience of that beauty and that pain, despite the billion-odd individual paths we're on, that we may as well just stop dead in our tracks, look at one another, and laugh. Or sigh. Or cry.

Everything in your sight will charm and delight you. Every last everyday detail: the way a pretty blonde has carefully tied the belt of her trenchcoat into an off-side bow; the self-conscious jerk with which a teenaged skateboarder shakes his hair from his face, poised and ready for the stoplight to release him; the oddly comforting familiarity of the taxi drivers' faces, queued as they are in their regular spot: Eastern European, and African, and African American. I don't know a single one of them. I feel as though I've known each of them for years.

You can have the thought come dancing into your brain, boastful and irrational as it always is, that you feel things more intensely than other people. You can feel your mind schism at the thought, half of it prickling with shame—What makes you think you're so special?, half of it quietly agreeing—yes. Yes, you do. 

You'll wonder for the hundredth time if something inside of you is broken, causing you to feel such exquisite, heart-stopping joy at the most mundane of triggers—or if instead something in you is enhanced. Amplified. And, as always when this happens, the wind will stir the leaves in your mind, exposing their opposite, darker sides: yes, but.

Yes, but, even if it's true, even if the wellspring of joy runs deeper in you, so too does the sorrow.

And you can think, for the hundredth time, about diluting both the joy and the sorrow. About saying, Yes, well, the thing is, doctor, the depression really is unbearable at times. Yes, I know this pill will dull the brighter side of things too. On balance, though, I think it would be best.

And you can say, Fuck balance. You can say, Fuck balance, I'll take them both. Because you can, because you've been doing it your whole adult life.

That's what you can do, on a windy day, on a late afternoon in February.

March 8, 2013

Let's make a deal. Let's figure it out together. Let's agree that it can and should take time. That there will necessarily be icebergs ahead. We'll probably hit some. We might even sink. But I won't burn your lifesaver if you won't burn mine.

You came into my life for one set of reasons. You stayed there for another. There's a reason that losing you felt like tearing my soul down the middle. That was my heart and mind and every nerve of my viscera saying, This. This was special.

And I know it's the same for you.

So let's make a deal, to navigate the icy water blindly, clumsily, for as long as it takes until we come clear into smoother sailing, and I can look at you, and you can look at me, and we can laugh knowing there's no more risk of crashing in the dark. Because you've raised your own flag again, and I've raised mine. And we can share the same ocean peacefully.

And when you're foundering, you can flash me a signal, and when I capsize, I can send one to you, and we'll take turns Saving Our Souls. I won't use your secrets against you if you won't use mine, and we'll find a wavelength to meet on that's uniquely ours, and that won't disturb those above and those below.

I see your worth even when you can't. I'll list everything lovable and valuable in you, for you, time and again, because the love and value you injected into my life is priceless and will stay with me forever. And you? You already know what to do. You already know how quickly and easily you can bump me back up. Meet me for coffee and play with Chaucer. Listen to the latest installments of my various dramas, real and virtual. Ask me to ride on your motorcycle when I'm having a low day. Pretend it's for your sake, not mine. A ride to the framer? That's all I ask. For you to be my first guest on the bike. When I'm late meeting you downstairs, text again. I am ready for my first passenger.

Smile big when you see me. Give me a quick hug, and then put a mockingly serious face on. Ok, now there's only one rule. You don't have to lean with me, but don't lean against me. Then pull your massive helmet over my head and buckle the strap under my chin. Grin at how ridiculous I look. Insist I wear your heavy, padded jacket, even though you'll freeze without it. Break the wind and cold for me.

You've always been good at that.

Zip me up yourself, stuffing my scarf and hair out of the way with suppressed laughter, while the guys unloading their car nearby glance over at the scene we make. Go fast, to make me laugh in spite of myself. You know I hate the bike. You know I worry about you on it. On the ride back home, turn your head casually and ask me what's up. So? What's going on? Why are you low? When I say I don't want to talk about it, nod. Because you know if I did, I would.

Thank me for being there for you, just a few days ago. Tell me you feel back on track because of our talk. I won't tell you for the hundredth time that you put yourself back on track. I won't tell you for the hundredth time that you're doing great, and that you don't need me or anyone else to love you, in order to be lovable, period, though I wish you knew that.

I know how to be your friend, even though it hasn't always been easy.

I know how to be your ex, and you know how to be mine.

March 9, 2013

He gives himself away each time. He can't help it. He might know better, but he's unable to stop himself. He pushes too hard. He's impatient. He tries to weave a web of subtlety and suggestion, but his threads are ropes, and they won't hold. They fall heavily, empty. Nothing caught in the trap. He'll have to gather them up, again, and try a different tack. Though what avenues are possibly left? What hasn't been exhausted?

And it's insulting. 

Because it's so obvious. I mean, for the love of Christ, who says that? No one. No one says that.

And her senses only become sharper each time. She can catch him out quicker - it's he who's given her the practice. And her disgust grows, branching out from the place it was seeded, what? Six. Six years ago, planted by the first liar. The original liar. 

Predator. Deceit. Preying, lying. 

Watch me turn away without so much as a second thought, and never look back. You have no idea how easy it is for me. You'd be terrified if you did. You'd think I wasn't even human, how quickly and completely I will sever without hesitation, and be the better stronger for it. 

I fucking hate predatory men for whom nothing and no one is ever enough. More, more, more they need. More, more, more. Collecting women like toys in a box, like insatiable, spoiled brats. 

Tend to your own home before you go crashing into someone else's. Finish what you started before you start something new.

There is nothing. I hate. More. Than a man who lies to me.

And yet, every one of them is doing the next man I love an enormous favor. If they only knew what he's going to get, in reverse displacement of my disgust, which will become gratitude for honesty and vulnerability and loyalty, which will become passion and joy poured all over him the likes of which these liars will never, ever be the benefactor of.

March 11, 2013

I tried to teach Chaucer about sin today. An opportunity presented itself, and I decided it was time. I don't think the lesson quite stuck, though. Here's what happened.

We were at the dog park, and a Boxer there was playing with a tennis ball. I hadn't brought any toys for Chauc, and I could see him glancing over at the Boxer enviously. "Now Chaucer," I said. "Stop coveting that ball. Covetousness is a sin."

Chaucer looked at up me, a curious expression on his face. "What's 'sin', Mom?"

I kneeled down in front of my dog and looked in his massive, dark eyes. "Sin is a very bad thing," I explained. "A very, very, very bad thing." Chaucer flinched when he heard me say bad, in the way that he does when I scold him for naughty behavior.

"You mean like when I get on the bed without being invited?" he asked, tilting his big head thoughtfully.

"Yes," I said, and gave his chest a rub. "Exactly like that. But there are other kinds of sin, too, And they're all equally bad."

Chaucer looked at me, his eyes wide. "Like what?" he asked.

"Well," I started slowly, thinking of how to explain what I had in mind. "You know how sometimes you like to mount other dogs?" Chaucer nodded. "It's ok to do that to girl dogs. But when you do it to other boy dogs, it's a sin. And remember, sin is bad. Bad, bad, bad." With each "bad," his sweet doggy face drooped a little bit lower.

Chaucer peered up at me uncomprehendingly. I knew that all this talk of sin was confusing to him, and that the words I was using were ones that made him feel sad and ashamed and scared. I knew that pleasing me was all that mattered to him, and he was starting to think maybe he'd done something wrong - something to disappoint me. And he hadn't, really.

He hadn't done a single thing other than to be a dog, wishing for a toy.

But it was important, so I soldiered on. "Sweetie, it's ok. You're not the only sinner. We're all sinners. Mommy's a sinner and all these other dogs at the park are sinners, and remember that Dalmation who stole your frisbee last year? She's a sinner, too."

"I don't understand, Mom," Chaucer said sadly. "Should...should I go home and go to my bed? Are you mad at me? I'm really sorry, Mom. I won't look at anyone else's ball again, ever. I promise. I won't sin. Please don't make me go home. I'm having so much fun."

I looked at my boy, dreading what I still had yet to say. I reached out and gently pulled his velvety ears through my fingertips. His eyes closed halfway in bliss. "No, you don't have go home," I said soothingly. "But you need to repent your sins, because if you don't, you're going to go to The Kennel when you die."

I could feel Chaucer tremble under my touch when I said it. His sixth sense had kicked in, and he knew I was talking about something very serious, and very scary. "'The Kennel'?" he repeated, his eyes wide and shining.

"Yes," I said gravely. "The Kennel. The Kennel is where you'll go if you're an unrepentant sinner. And do you know what it's like there, Chaucer?" He shook his head slowly, his jowls rubbing softly against my wrist. "The Kennel," I continued, "is a place where dogs are crowded together, one on top of another, millions upon millions of them, and tortured forever and ever. There's no one to feed you or pet you or play with you in The Kennel, Chaucer. It's filled with mean, cruel people who will kick you and beat you and punish you, over and over, because you sinned."

Chaucer didn't speak for a moment. I could see he was thinking. "You mean, if I were to go over there and mount Sydney right now, I'd...I'd be sent to The Kennel? Just for playing with him? Because he's a boy?" I nodded.

"But," he said quietly, his furry brow deeply lined, "how do you know about all of this, Mom? How do you know about these sins, and about The Kennel?"

I composed my face sternly. "Because, Chaucer. It was written in a book, a long long time ago, at a time when very few people could read or write, and when very little was known about the world, and about how it works. It was written by people who didn't have the understanding that we do today, of astronomy and geology, of medicine and mathematics, of biology and sociology. And those people repeated what was written in the book to other people. And those people repeated it to other people. And along the way, other, nicer stories were added to the scary bits, to make them seem less scary. And people started repeating those nicer stories because it made them feel good, and happy, and gave them a reason to live, and a reason not to be scared of dying."

Then Chaucer looked at me with an expression wiser than that I'd seen on most humans. "Mom," he said, "I felt good and happy and had a reason to live before you told me any of these things. My reason to live is because I have you to take care of, and my friends to play with. And because the grass feels so good under my paws when I run. I'm happy because the world is beautiful, filled with kind strangers who pet me on the street."

"Oh, Chauc," I said, and sighed. "If only it were that simple. But it's not. There are rules, lots of rules. And consequences. But there are rewards, too. If you're a good boy and do all the many things you're told, and none of the many things you're told not to do, you'll get to live forever and ever, and have as many frisbees and balls and treats as you'd like. You'll get to see all your friends again, and me, and this life you have now will be but the blink of an eye in the scheme of eternity. It'll be almost as if it never happened."

He wrinkled his muzzle. "I don't think I want to live forever, Mom. I get pretty tuckered out after we just play fetch for a while." Chaucer paused and took a step toward me, nuzzling my neck with his cold, wet nose.

"I'll be good, Mom, and not because I'm scared of The Kennel, or because I need a reward. I'll be good because it feels good to make you happy, and to not hurt my friends. And if I only get this lifetime of being with you and them, that's ok by me. Because that seems like an awfully long time to squeeze in a lot of love and play already."

And after giving me a quick kiss on my cheek, my dog turned and started off in the direction of home.

I had no choice but to follow his lead.

February 1, 2013

Well, dog, you're five. Happy birthday.

There was a time when I didn't think you'd live much longer than this, because of things I'd heard about giant breed dogs. But it's obvious you're not going anywhere for a while. At five years old, you have the energy and playfulness of a puppy, which is what you're still occasionally mistaken for.

Speaking of which, you were a ridiculous, pain in the ass of a puppy. Adorable, clumsy, hysterical when left alone. You hated to be crated, and you were terrible on a leash. But now that you're all growed up, I can't believe how much I lucked out.

I won the dog lottery.

Let's start with what a pleasure it is to walk you. You trot along beside me, and you only pull when you see a familiar face that you want to greet. The leash hangs slack between us, a wordless agreement to move at a comfortable, companionable pace. People are amazed at how good a walker you are—other dog owners, jealous. Even if you're in a mood to sniff every goddamn tree, you respond to my slightest correction, and settle in by my side, content just to be out and about. At night, when the streets are empty, I unclip you, and we sprint together down the sidewalk, you bursting with energy and joy in the cold night air. But you always stay close, and I never have to worry about you running off, or away. I take you everywhere I possibly can: coffee shops, the cleaner's, the tailor's, the salon, late night pizza runs. I even sneak you into the very edge of Grand Central Market, so I can get juice for our walks.

You're friendly to strangers, stopping cheerfully to say hello when you hear them exclaim over you. You've come to recognize the oohs and ahhs that mean someone wants to pet you. You allow yourself to be stroked, your chin to be lifted, and your gaze to be held, by humans you've never met. You read my energy, and if I'm nervous, so are you—but you never snap or snarl. Most days we can't go a block without at least one person wanting to meet you. You're unfailingly calm with children, even when they grope and pull and scream. You sniff toddlers' and babies' faces with gentle curiosity, to the delight of both them and their mothers.

At home, you're less a pet than a roommate. You keep me company for hours at a stretch, lazing about on your bed or the floor. You've learned to ask permission to be let on the bed: you'll stand beside it and look at me imploringly. Sometimes I'll indulge you, and throw an old sheet on top of my covers, so you can stretch out in luxury.

You're smart. You've learned your schedule, you read my cues—you know how to ask for what you want and need, be it a toy that's rolled under the bed, a trip to the park, a treat, or just a few minutes' worth of caresses. You're completely in tune with my emotions, and it never ceases to amaze me, how much your mood on any given day lines up with my own. If I'm sleepy, you zonk out. If I'm happy, you're playful. If I'm stressed, you pace.

When I'm upset, you're instantly at my side, pawing me, licking my face, whimpering. If I cry, I can't do so for very long—I quickly end up consoling you. But I don't even have to get to that point for you to feel the change in my energy; you reach me before the tears do. You've seen me through the death of two parents, a divorce, three moves, and a handful of breakups. You wait patiently while I travel the world. You never judge a single bad choice I make.

You love your toys, and play with every single one. When friends come over, you systematically present each of your balls, ropes, and stuffed animals to them one at a time, showing off like a child. You're no longer afraid of the toy basket I bought you a few years ago; you plunge your head straight into it and root around to get exactly what you want.

You've learned to talk, small growls and cries and barks and howls that I echo back to you. We converse together in your jowly voice, sometimes throwing our heads back and singing. You ask for meals. You whine for lost toys. You growl playfully for attention.

You've accepted the major changes in your life with grace and even, it seems, gratitude. Suburb to city. House to apartment. Yard to sidewalk. Smaller and smaller abodes each time. And yet you've remained sweet-natured, playful, well-adjusted. You let me know when you need some attention—a few minutes of tug-o-war, or a good long walk and some socialization. You've adjusted to loft life beautifully. You've made friends. You have play dates. You're a recognizable fixture in our neighborhood.

You're never picky. When things are tight and I run out of dog food, you're content with a few eggs, or rice, or whatever I have on hand. You'll eat salad, for god's sake. You love berries and apples, steamed carrots and broccoli. At least a couple times a week, we split a banana during a walk: you eat your half straight from the peel, like me, standing on the corner while we wait for the light.

Your size is never a problem—only a bonus. You're tall enough that in the morning, you can press your face into the bed near mine, wagging your tail when I smile and say good morning. Then, kisses. And yawns—you've learned to yawn loudly because it makes me laugh. Beside me on the sidewalk, I don't even have to stoop to stroke your back or finger your velvety ears. You're a sure, solid weight next to me as we walk. Sometimes when I'm feeling overwhelmed with happiness and optimism, I'll shut my eyes and tilt my head back to feel the sun, the breeze on my face. I keep my eyes closed for a few moments, knowing you'll keep leading us straight.

You delight onlookers with your sweet, puppyish face and goofy gait. When I used to get lonely late at night, I'd walk you by the bars and nightclubs, just to have some social interaction. You've made me friends. You're an excellent wingman, too.

You never complain when I have to leave you for several hours at a time, or if I spend the night away. You never have accidents, even those times where emergencies have kept me from you for half a day.

You're a riot. You'll lick a cut lemon and huge, foamy bubbles will froth from your lips. Sometimes you fart when you're play-bowing, and the noise will startle you. You run and slide down the hallway, slipping clumsily around corners. Your huge, post-meal burps are a viral YouTube video waiting to happen. I'm pretty sure I gave you a contact high a few months ago: you spent five minutes sniffing in bizarre circles and tracking invisible prey around a tree and into the air. You once stole a slice of pizza from a kid in a stroller.

We've perfected our relationship. You know when you can get away with pushing my buttons, and when I need you to be more independent. We understand one another's needs, and we meet them as best we can. And you forgive me every time I fuck up.

We have our own language. I have so many silly, secret, special phrases and pet names for you that no one else gets to hear. I grab you and nom-nom-nom on your head, your cheeks, your ears. You wag and smile. Sometimes when I've been at my desk for a long time, you'll come to me and paw my arm. Come sit with me. And I do. I sit cross-legged in front of you and stroke your front legs, kneading the calluses on your elbows and cooing at you. Every part of your anatomy has a special, silly name. I baby you completely, and you are a little bit spoiled—but everyone comments on how well-behaved you are, nevertheless.

Look, we both know this letter is for me, not you, but whatever. You're incredible, and a birthday card is the least you deserve for all the love and laughs you've given me this half decade.

March 13, 2013

To Whom It May Concern,

Recently, I received a billing statement from the office of James M. Radeski, DDS, regarding an outstanding balance on the account of my father, Norman Baker.

(Precisely how recently I received this bill I'm afraid I cannot say, as sometime toward the end of last year, I established the temporarily anxiety-reducing if ultimately stress-compounding habit of depositing stacks of Norman's unopened mail in the rosewood sewing box on my sideboard. One can only field so many fundraising solicitations from the Tea Party Patriots and membership renewal reminders from the John Birch Society before one needs a respite from the tidings of the United States Postal Service.)

The sole item on this statement is noted as code D095: Broken Appointment.

It appears that my father missed his semi-annual teeth cleaning appointment, scheduled for October 4th, 2012.

May I just take a moment to say that my father had excellent teeth? He really did. They were lovely and straight, and very white, and he was rather vain about them. He brushed them fastidiously, often while roaming about the house in a state of semi-undress, Sonicare buzzing in his cheek, conducting half-garbled and largely incoherent conversations with myself and/or the cat.

I guess what I'm saying is, Dr. Radeski did fine work, where my father's dental health was concerned. Please convey my compliments.

But to return to the matter of the balance, I'm afraid that as my father passed away some five months prior to his October appointment, it would indeed have proven quite challenging for him to attend it.

I'm sorry, but if I could just interrupt this letter once more, I'd like to also say that my father was an extremely responsible and considerate man. He wasn't the type to miss engagements, ever, and was always respectful of other peoples' time.

I, on the other hand, am the type of person who stuffs unopened bills into sewing boxes, where they remain out of sight and out of mind for months on end. Consequently, I do hope that you'll consider this oversight my own, and not my father's. He'd really be pissed at me if you didn't, and while not a superstitious person, I've no wish to invite his posthumous temper anymore than I enjoyed the occasional glimpse of his living one.

As regards the $30 balance, I trust that the above revelation will be sufficient cause to clear the charge on my father's account. If you require a death certificate as proof of his demise, I can provide one, though I won't lie: I'd be grateful if you'd just take my word for it. Digging through my files to find the requisite document, carrying it by hand across the street to Kinko's, and staring dolefully at its contents while waiting for the fax machine to blast them into the digital ether - a routine I have already undertaken a couple dozen times in the past year - well, it kind of totally sucks.

Thank you for your time and understanding, and for your part in giving my father one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever known.

Sincerely,
Elizabeth Baker

March 19, 2013

I wake to music. Bass guitar and muffled lyrics: sound checks on the street below. The nostalgia wastes no time settling on me as I lay in bed, a fine dust I know will be difficult to shake off. Last year's St. Patrick's Day was one of the best days in I've had in LA. I spent the day with Cameron and Greg, the two people I felt closest to, men who I knew understood and loved me, in spite of everything awful about me. We stood together, alone amongst thousands of other people, threw our arms around one another, and belted out the words to songs that dialed me back years, to other joyful times in my life. Music and love, romantic and Platonic, memories created and called upon, just steps from my front door. I was enraptured by life that day.

Drugs will do that to you.

And it's drugs that are on my mind when I wake up, because I'm scared. I'm scared that this nostalgia will choke me if I don't find something sweet to wash it down with. So much has changed in the past year. I've grown enormously, yes. I've tried to roll with the knocks, both brutal and easy, and I think I've landed in a pretty good place. But a part of me can't help but long for the life I had 365 days ago. A few weeks after St. Patrick's Day, 2012, I was on a plane to Florida to help my father die. A few months after that, the relationship that I'd clung to like a life raft, terrified of even more loss, ended, sending me into a spiral of desperation and suicidal ideation. And a few months after that, Cameron moved away, taking with him something I hadn't even known existed until I met him.

Constants downgraded to variables. Touchstones crumbled to ashes. Remember, Ellie, this is why you don't hang your happiness on things that can change. 

Yeah, well.

But though my mind occasionally flashes to the contents of the tiny plastic bag inside the vase that's pushed far to the back of my highest kitchen cabinet shelf, I'm determined to give it a go without. I can do this. I'll just get hammered and have a great time with my friends. I won't look back. 

I take Chaucer for a long, brisk walk, and he even gets some rare, off-leash play with another dog. This feels like a good sign, and as we round the corner of my block, the barricades and trucks, the tents and lights and balloons, the early revelers that are already trickling into the street festival, charge me up with positive vibes. It's going to be a good day.

I don't even have a plan, really. I've invited Kerry and Ross to join me, but it's iffy that they're going to come. Some acquaintances from the neighborhood, and another one from my building, have said they'll be there, but we haven't set a time or a meetup point, and it will be hard to find them in the crowd. I consider texting some other downtown friends, but decide against it. If I'm going to spend time with anyone today, it needs to be with people I love. The only people I feel close to that are actually nearby, and that can come, are Kerry and Ross, but as they're not fans of crowds, there's a very good chance that I'll be going alone.

And I'm mostly okay with that, since a) not going is not an option, because the sound of the massive party pouring in my windows would just be too depressing to hide from, b) I know after a few drinks I'll be happy to mingle with strangers, anyway, and c) Greg is going, and I know if I run into him, we'll probably stick together for the day.

I feed Chaucer, slam water to rehydrate from a party the night before, and get dressed while listening to Flogging Molly, loud. It's the one day a year I can blast music with impunity, since my neighbors can't hear it above what is already rocking our building from the street below. I put on a button down, a kelly green sweater, a plaid miniskirt, over-the-knee socks, a skinny scarf, and a pair of combat boots. An outfit that's ridiculous and way too young, but which I can get away with on a day like today, when silliness, spirit, and inappropriate wardrobe choices abound.

I put in a final request urging Kerry and Ross to come over, and head downstairs. Residents of my building have been given free VIP access to the festival, so I get to bypass the block-long line and walk in with almost no wait. I'm trying to psych myself up for the day, but I'm not feeling it. And as I drift into the crowd, populated by clusters of laughing friends, I lose emotional steam. I don't want to be alone here. But the U2 cover band that I loved so much last year and the year before is playing, so I put on my game face and push up towards the stage. The sun is beating down on me, and I realize that a cashmere sweater, wool thigh highs, and no sunglasses was a bad call.

I'm debating whether to get a drink, run back home to change, or leave downtown for the day altogether when I realize someone is talking to me. A guy decked out in festive accessories is asking me something. Who are you looking for? Are you alone? 

No, I'm not alone, I reply. Are you alone? It's only sort of a lie. Kerry and Ross may come, and if not, I know I'll run into people I know soon enough. The guy says he's looking for a girl, a friend he's lost in the crowd. He tells me I look like I just walked out of Hogwarts. I laugh, but have no witty comeback. I can't wrap my head around this conversation, I say honestly. I'm way too sober. Sensing I'm not in party mode yet, the guy wishes me a happy holiday and disappears back into the throng.

I realize I'm sweating in my layers, and that if I don't go home and change, my low mood has a zero percent chance of improving. As I head out the exit, I see that at this point, even the VIP line has gotten ridiculous, and I'll be in for a wait when I come back. But my apartment is just around the corner, so I decide it's still worth being more comfortable.

At home, I tear off my sweater and shirt, my skirt and my socks. Chaucer dances around me excitedly, nervous at all the energy and sound filling our tiny space. I change into a tank top layered under a green and black striped crop top, jeans, and Converse. I drink another glass of water, and lean against the counter, trying to relax. I want to have a good day. I need to have a good day. I can't have last year back, but I can have something equally good, if I choose it. I have to choose it.

But the day has taken on a life and a meaning of its own, and I feel helpless to stop it. It suddenly feels like a litmus test of my happiness. I'm petrified of the comparison between this St. Patrick's Day and the last one, and what it will do to me if today is a bummer. And that's when I decide to write myself a money-back guarantee.

I have to stand on the tips of my toes to reach the vase. I pull it down carefully, and take a small, compressed tablet out of the bag inside. It's purplish-white, with the shape of a cat stamped on one side and M80 on the other. Other than the thickness and the stamps, it looks exactly like my synthroid pills. I force down two more full glasses of water before I swallow the tab, and promise myself I'll get more water at the bar downstairs, first thing.

Back at the festival, I have a twenty minute wait just to get in again. I try not to feel frustrated as I hear the band play songs I love, reminding myself that it'll be at least forty minutes before I start to roll, anyway. Kerry and Ross text to say they're on their way; that they're just drinking some whiskey first. A knot in my shoulders loosens. Yes. I won't be alone today. In just a little while I'll be laughing and singing and cavorting with friends, just like everyone else. Gratitude washes over me, and logistics settled, I focus on guiding the warmth and light that's slowly building in my bloodstream, on channeling it up through my neural pathways, out my fingertips, and into the world around me. I imagine myself a conduit and a receptacle. I can take energy and I can give it. Today will be what I make of it. This high will run the course that I take it on. Make the conscious decision, Ellie. Choose light and love and laughter, and those are the things you will get.

Serotonin is a biological miracle in and of itself, and I'm awed by the fact that humans have figured out a way to hijack and amplify it, purely for recreational purposes. This is one of the last sober thoughts I remember having, before the light and love and laughter float me up to another plane, where I spend the next several hours.

- - -

To write the rest of yesterday in chronological, sensical, and dryly factual prose would feel like a lie, because my thoughts, feelings, and experiences were deeply colored by the drug I took. I just don't know that I'd be able to accurately recreate what actually happened. What was said, and thought, and felt. Or if not a lie, maybe something even worse - some kind of gross imprisonment of things pure and organic and defying of classification. Things that shouldn't be bottled up or tied down, because they aren't mine alone for the tying down.

If you haven't been there, I know that doesn't make any sense. But if you have, you understand what I'm trying to say, even if my words are overly florid and melodramatic. There's nothing you can say to make someone who's never taken MDMA understand what it's like, because the experience is so individual for everyone. Every time I try to explain it, or write about it, I come up against a wall that divides the words I know from the feelings I want to describe. Everything I'd want to make understood is on the far side of that wall, beyond the reach of description. The closest I could come would be to just write the word euphoria, over and over and over a hundred times.

But since that would be boring, I'll put some more words down, anyway.

- - -

Back at the stage. Sunlight feels good now. Yes. Really good. The crowd thickens around me. Not pushy, not drunken. Just happy. Or maybe it's me. Maybe that's it.

Tap on my shoulder. Tall young man, bowler hat. Grass green vest, green plaid tie. Green eyes, devastating eyelashes, straight black hair past his shoulders. His exaggerated bow. M'lady. My delighted laughter. A hug. An acquaintance who works in the neighborhood. From New Zealand. His accent and dialect are charming. Much younger. Works at my favorite casual lunch spot. I sit at the counter, we chat while he cooks.

Do you want a drink?

Not drinking today. My meaningful look. But I will need water soon.

He understands. Stay put, be right back. Couldn't move if I wanted to.

A few minutes later, a cold bottle is pressed into my hands. Lots of birds here.

Birds? 

Birds. Women.

Yes. Birds. I love it. The music and sunshine, the connectivity. Strangers smiling. Singing to themselves, one another. Sunday Bloody Sunday. A massive Irish flag, waved across a stage. I can feel it now. It's definitely here. It's good. It's going to be really good. The chatty phase.

I sent the lead singer some photos I got of him a couple years ago, and he loved them.

Yeah? Did he ever try to holler at you?

Holler?

Holler at. You know, like, ask you out.

I love this, too. Oh no, nothing like that. I never met him or anything. 

Well, he would if he met you. You know that right?

Turning to face him. What...?

You have no idea. You're the most radiant woman. When you walk down the street... He trails off.

I smile. Looking straight at him. Leaning close to his ear. That is such an amazing thing to say to a girl. Really. That's the most beautiful compliment, and I'm so flattered. But we're friends, right? And we're going to stay friends? You know how old I am, right?

Oh, I know. I know. I wasn't... His face is sincere. He's just being sweet. And drunk. Confessing a crush. No hurt feelings. It's good. Everything is good. He drifts away soon, though. Later, I'll bump into him. Bombshell redhead, green halter dress. Seems genuinely happy to be talking to him. Yes. Good for him. An introduction. I tell her with honesty how stunning she is, how much she stands out in the crowd. His smile is even bigger than hers. No trace of resentment or weirdness. Everything is okay. I've lost nothing. Maybe even gained something.

I float a little bit higher, and memories form with a bit more disjointedness.

- - -

Kerry and Ross arrive. Kerry's tipsy, but rattled by a dog attack they witnessed on the way over. Me joking and laughing. Cajoling her out of a bad mood. She's okay. She's happy. A friend of hers is here. We meet up. VIP section. Our group grows: friends of friends, coworkers, partners. Laughter, random connection, coincidence in a not-small town. Wait, you know Stacy too?

Cameron texts me. He's not having a fabulous day. I tell him how much he's missed. 

Do you remember a year ago right now?

I do. That was quite a day. How are you doing? Celebratory? Wistful?

High. Little bit wistful too, yeah. ...Ok, a lot. :(

Sorry doll. Maybe it's just down payment on future joy. Plus wistful at least means you had good stuff. Nobody's wistful for crap times.

It's cold. I'm cold now. I run home again for a coat. This time I'm not made to wait, and I rejoin my friends quickly. The wind. We huddle together. Drinks, more drinks. Water, more water. I'm in conversation. I'm miles away. I'm face to face. I'm above myself, looking down. This is my life. These are my friends. I live here. I've made this my home. I have work to do, to improve myself, to be a better person, but I've achieved this at least. These good people care about me. There's nothing more beautiful than that. My mind is quick. I'm wittier. I'm making strangers and new friends laugh. The hum and buzz of energy builds around our small cluster in the chilly afternoon. We are happy people, in this moment, on this day. 

My heart full. I did it. I made today ok. I feel fantastic. The smiles on the faces of my friends mean everything to me. It's enough. I need nothing more. I deserve nothing more. But I'll get more anyway.

- - -

We leave the festival, but the group falls apart. Confusion, disagreement; scattered, drunken minds. Some tension. Too much to drink. They want to eat, to slow down and stop soon. I don't. None of that. No way. Not yet. I'm still high, not ready for the weight of reality, of arguments and frustration.

I text Greg again. We've been texting all day, on and off. He's high too. He was at the festival, felt like painting, went home to do work. At a bar now. Come join me, he says. I look at my friends.

Guys, I'm leaving. You're arguing, and I love you, but I'm really high, and I need to keep moving. Okay?

Kerry is hurt, angry. What? No! We'll come with you.

No. I need a Kerry and Ross break, okay? I love you guys to death, but I'm gonna go.

Anger. You're full of shit. You're going to meet someone. 

Yes, I am. I'm going to meet Greg He's high too. And I want to see him. Please don't be mad. Are you mad?

Are you leaving because we're fighting or because you want to see Greg?

Both. I want to see him, so it's convenient that you're arguing. 

Honesty: a side effect of the drug. Her face softens.

Okay, go. 

Are you mad?

No, get out of here.

- - -

A bar a few blocks away. Crowded, dark. He's not alone. I don't want to be here. I want to be back at the music, under the lights and in the crowd. He agrees. Let's go. Should we take more? Do you have more? I do. Let's split one. I reach deep into my pocket for another tablet, which he carefully bites in half, grimacing at the bitter taste. I drop the other half in my water bottle, shaking it vigorously before taking a sip. His friend leaves.

Just us. Again. Walking down the street. Laughing, talking, reminiscing. Harmless. Happy. High. It starts slow. Can I hug you? I just want to hug you.

Yes. You can. That would be ok. That would be fantastic.

His arms wrap around me from behind. Strong and tight and warm. Back at the festival. Music. Cold. We dance, we play. We hug and hold. I slip my arms into his sweatshirt. What happened? How did this...? Time machine. It's the exact same fucking moment. Almost, anyway. And better, in some ways. No hurt on the horizon. We know the score. This is a safe place we visit. A well we drink from when we're dying of thirst. He gazes down at me. I gaze back up. The grinning. Our grins, always. We must look ridiculous.

Stop.

You stop.

No, you. 

The words start.

There's no one like you.

There's no one like you, either.

And so it goes. We walk hand in hand to the bookshelf, and we take it down together. Be careful, it's heavy. We flip through the pages. I point to a picture. He tells the story. Remember? Remember? Sighs that are more happy than sad. That song. Remember? That day. Remember? Bonnaroo. Remember?

We cling to one another, sway to the music. I rest my head against his chest, low because of my flat shoes. His eyes are bright. He is so happy. So, so happy.

I lower the bucket, bring it back up for him to drink from. You know you're the reason I started writing again, right? I mean, serious writing? You unlocked it. You were the muse. You probably saved my life.

His turn. Lower the bucket. Bring it up. I'm thirsty, too. I've never felt better than when I was with you. You made me feel like I'm ok. Like it's ok to be who I really am. 

This is what we do. This is the gift we give one another. We've done it over and over, in the months since we ended. And we'll probably do it again.

You have no idea. You're such a happy person. I wish I could be that way.

Do I really seem happy?

El, I've seen you at your absolute worst. The lowest you could possibly be. And it was bad, right? It was really bad. But I see you, and I know who you are, and you are truly so happy. You make yourself happy. You're amazing. 

I swallow this, bury it deep down in the safest part of me, and then I give it right back. I praise his talent, his ambition and drive, which are unlike any I've ever seen in a self-employed creative. I don't know how you do it. Every day, you work so hard, and you make it happen. Other things he deserves to know, too. You were the best boyfriend I ever had. You showed so much care and consideration for my well being and my happiness. ...You are the most authentic person I've ever known. Even at your worst, you are always just...you. No artifice. No hiding who you are.

- - -

It's inevitable, and it starts with the kiss. Minutes long, lingering, in plain sight of everyone milling around us. Drawing the attention - and occasionally the comments - of strangers walking by. Unlike any kiss given back on earth. We're not on earth. We're way, way above it. The things in the kiss are timeless and beautiful: friendship and understanding and compassion and comfort. We are on the exact same plane, physically and emotionally. It's okay. It's so, so okay.

Soft blankets. Candlelight. Silly Chauc, go lie down. Laughter. This is so great. How do you feel?

Amazing.

Me too. 

He asks whether I've been writing. He doesn't read my blog - only the occasional post that I want to share with him, and that I send to him. Not much, I say. The GOMI thing really fucked me up. I don't want to be judged. Sometimes I wonder why I do it. What am I putting myself out there for? To what end? Even Instagram. It gets exhausting. I think I need a break. 

He tells me a story about an artist, some woman who wrote on her website about the lowest, ugliest moments of her heroine addiction and depression. And how it was so relieving to her, to have it all out there. Like, go ahead, judge me if you want, it's just who I am.

Yes, I say excitedly. That's exactly it. It's like a confessional where I can just lay myself out, and people can either accept who I am or not. 
Music. Explosions in the Sky, is that ok?  

That's perfect.

Postcard From 1952. A more perfect song has never been written. It rips through my heart and my soul, leveling me where I lay, pressed against him. Sheets, smooth and soft. It's cold, though. Put the heat on. Yes. Come back. Come close. You are so beautiful. Your body. Oh El, your body.

Your shoulders. They've been molded. I trace their lines with my fingertips. They're like those things football players wear, what are they called? 

Shoulder pads? He laughs. Be quiet. 

We talk and talk and kiss and talk and kiss. We talk about our romantic lives, about the people we've met, dated, and connected with - or failed to. We talk about my father, about how experiencing his death together was one of the most powerful and bonding experiences of not just our relationship, but of our lives. I struggle to find the words to tell him how amazing he was for me at that time. Husband-like. That's all I can say. You were just...husband-like. You took charge and did what I couldn't, and you got me through it. Emotionally, logistically, everything. 

I'm still so high. I close my eyes and describe the visions in my mind. The faces and shapes and colors and movement. I change the music. Of Monsters and Men. I sing softly in his ear.

A wave of clarity washes over me, and I realize what it is I love most about this man, what is so unique about him to me. He's the only man I've ever known who has willingly, openly, and happily laid his whole heart on the table for me. He's the only one who's been truly emotionally available and vulnerable, ready to take on the happy and the hurt, come what may. His attention and love were undivided, and mine for the taking. I try to explain this to him, but fail. Dating in LA is hard, he says. Everyone is looking for something better. But you'll be ok. I want so much for you to be happy, El.

Another music change. Youth Lagoon. I'm sleepy. I'm drifting. He tries to pull me back in. I know what he wants. My mind wants it, too, but my body is maxed out. I can't, I say. I'm sorry. I'm so tired. Holding me close. But the music expands, reaches out to me. The songs I love most pull me back to the moment: Posters, Daydream. I shift positions, I feel his need.

I whisper in the flickering light. What do you need?

No, it's ok. We shouldn't...

What do you need...? I reach out, touch him, answer my own question. His sighs. I've always loved his sighs. Rewards for piecing the puzzle together correctly. This. You need this. And this…

- - -

Something to hold. Something to know. Something to believe. Something that is sure and true and won't change. You are a beautiful person who changed my life forever, and for the better. We aren't right for one another, and we know it, but you are an oasis in the desert that is sometimes my life, and I'm one in yours.

No one was hurt. No betrayals, no infidelities, no lies. I have no one special in my life, and neither does he.

Friends. Bodies. Comfort. Love, of a kind. Serotonin. St. Patrick's Day, 2013.

It's all okay.

March 24, 2013

When the alarm goes off at 7:15, I've been asleep for about four hours. Snippets from the previous evening float back to me as I try, with futility, to suppress thoughts of the soju still in my system. An unreasonable amount of heavily seasoned, oil-soaked meat at Korean BBQ. The somewhat wild drive from K-town to Little Tokyo, looping unnecessarily through Skid Row, while listening, weirdly, to classical music. A private karaoke room, stuffy and dark, filled with loud and intimidatingly beautiful girls I don't know. Later: cramming into a photo booth in an Arts District bar, with the three people I do.

I consider canceling my 8:00 hair appointment, but I know I can't. My color has reached the crisis point; I can see it in pictures. Plus, I want bangs.

My stylist is a friend; she and her husband own the salon a block from my apartment. When I was married, the four of us were close, and hung out several times a month. Extravagant dinners at Mastro’s, drinks at Nic's in Beverly Hills; impromptu, slightly drunken trips to Malibu, where I once skinny dipped in the pitch black surf. They often cooked us meals at their home, and we'd stay late afterward, sitting around the fire pit on the rooftop, talking and drinking wine long into the night.

Chaucer dawdles on his morning walk, and 8:10 sees me running down the sidewalk, sloppy in Saturday sweats. But my rush is for nothing; she and her husband haven't even arrived yet, and as I take a seat to wait, my phone rings. Husband has been made to call by wife; it's his fault they're running late, and they're still another ten minutes out. I tell him not to be silly, and to just drive safe: I'm relaxing on the salon sofa and catching up on Instagram.

As usual, I entrust as all decisions re: my hair to Yvonne, who has never once made me regret it. What color, how much, the cut, the length of my bangs, etc. As usual, she deeply discounts my color, and doesn't charge me for the cut. As usual, I make up some of the difference in my tip.

Back at home, Chaucer has energy to burn, having not gotten a good long walk the day before. So I grab a hoodie and we go up the street to the John Ferraro Building, where after a long session of fetch, I spend several minutes brushing him. The area we play in is still flooded in the building's cool morning shade, and when he accidentally kicks his ball in the fountain, my ankles and feet go numb from wading into the icy water to retrieve it.

Cameron and I pick up our text conversation from the night before. He's at All Worlds Resort in Palm Springs, and has invited me out to join him. I decline, citing the estate paperwork that sits unfinished on my desk, and a lack of preplanning for boarding Chaucer. Plus, I'll get to see him when he's in town next weekend. Our three-day conversation covers such topics as porn, sex toys, and video games.

I've been informed that the TV in our room gets a myriad of porn channels.

Speaking of porn, I have a theory that so far has held up, which is that guys who watch it are demonstrably better in bed.

Interesting. The only potential flaw in the theory might be that guys who say they don't are lying. Unless they're me, of course.

I've thought of that. Corollary theory: guys who are hung up about porn to the point of lying about it aren't good in bed because they have hang ups.

The corollary theory seems sound. Good science. (thumbs up emoji) ...I am using the wifi at All Worlds to play Mermaid World. Only 8 days left to get Lum, the Easter mermaid. 

He sends a screenshot from the game: a trio of animated, doe-eyed mermaids with scant clothing but elaborate hair and makeup. Lum is in the middle, between Aries and Aqua. Her eyes are mint green; she wears a white pearl choker and white seashell bra. Her hair is cotton candy pink and woven through with flowers. A badge above her head reads 8 Days Left.

Lum has awesome hair. I can't stop laughing about the fact that you're playing Mermaid World. It makes me inexplicably happy.

It might as well be porn, because I probably act as if it were, closing out of it or positioning the screen so it can't be seen if someone walks by.

So awesome.

Awesome. Tragic. It's a fine line. 

Spyro texts, too, from San Diego, where he's partying with Mason. They'll be there until tomorrow, he says. This is standard operating procedure that we undergo every few weeks. He invites me to drop everything and jump on a train. I explain patiently that as much as I love spontaneity, I have a pet who requires forethought. The invitations are always last minute, often drunken, and disclose little to no information about the logistics of travel or accommodations.

Is this the part where you half-assedly invite me with no tangible details or plan? I love this part.

No it's the part where you get your ass in a rental car. We're seriously with 16 good looking German dudes who all make great money and they're humor. ...They'd love you. You could be here by 4.

East or West Germany?

East. It's Mason's last night with us.

Jew so funny.

We're getting him a forearm tattoo at dusk.

This goes on for some time. I have absolutely no intention of shoving Chaucer, last minute, into boarding so that I can join them (and he knows it), but we'll banter about it, anyway.

Please ask the Germans to take ein piktur of you, ja? Both of you at samen timen, ja?

My request goes ignored, but a little while later I'm sent a picture of what appears to be a party bus full of attractive thirty-something men, smiling widely for the camera. Mason sits towards the back, also smiling.

They heart Mason. Shocker. When do you get here?

Whoa, fuck. Some of those dudes are right bone-able. 

14 inches and then down. If you stack them we can climb out of a building.

Do you think they'd be down to enact my WWII sex fantasy? I'm a French girl living in the countryside; they're the Nazi troops occupying my dad's farm. We're all bored and there's an abandoned barn in the back...

Get your ass down here. Mason came last minute. It's so good that he paid to come, when he could have come for free with my buddy pass.

I can't. I have to shave my mustache, see? I take and send a picture of myself pointing sadly at my upper lip, scrunched tight so that the shadow above it is enhanced. This is a reference to a recent, profanity-laced exchange we had wherein he complimented my use of the "mustache removal" filter on an IG selfie.

When he doesn't reply, I make a visit to my bathroom, where I uncap an eyeliner pencil and carefully run it under my nose: line, swirl, swirl. I text again.

It's grown, look... I take and send another picture of myself, this time with the thin handlebar mustache I've just drawn, the edges curlicued delicately on either side.

(no reply)

You don't like it. :( :(

(no reply)

I go the bathroom, wash off the handlebar, and reapply the eyeliner in heavy, up-down strokes, a narrow rectangle that spans only the bow of my lips. I take another picture and send it, captioned GO GERMANY.

Finally, I get a reply.

You're an idiot.

The carpet matches the tablecloth, if you know whumsaying.

He ignores this and tells me he's coming to LA next weekend with his daughter, and that I should "be ready". I neglect to ask specifics or even reply at all, because I've learned better than to believe Spyro's plans until I see them enacted with my own eyes.

I decide to take a nap. It's about 2pm.

---

I wake up a little after 4pm, and see missed texts from Cameron, Spyro, and Mason, and a voicemail from Greg, which I listen to. He just wanted to say hi. He wants to see if we can continue our plan to not lose touch. He wants to know if I'd like to grab a coffee today or tomorrow. If so, call him back, or send a carrier pigeon, so he can stop leaving this stupid message, ok, bye.

Still laying in bed, I return the call immediately.

Small talk. What are you doing? - Nothing, just took a nap. You working? - Yeah. - How's it going? - Good. I can't hear you. You're eating the phone. - Sorry, is this better? - Yeah. Are you still in bed? - Me? No. - Oh. 'Coz that's what I sound like when I talk on the phone in bed. I hold it too close to my mouth. - Ok, yeah, I'm still in bed. 

More small talk. Ok, I'll let you go. - What? Why? I don't have to do anything. - Because I'm gonna get sappy. I just wanted to say hi. - Get sappy! What? What's up? - Nothing. ...I kind of want to come cuddle, but you already had a nap. - Come cuddle! I'll cuddle. I'm still sleepy. 

And just like that, that happens. No hesitation on my part whatsoever.

I'm straightening up, hurriedly picking last night's rejected outfits off the floor and wiping down my island countertop, when he texts to say he's downstairs. I retrieve him from the lobby and we hug in the elevator. It isn't until I step back to lean against the railing that I notice he's holding a large piece of poster board. He unrolls it to show me: a pen and ink drawing he did recently, of characters from an animated short we used to still joke about. He's brought it as a gift for me.

From that point, things started to blur, as they are wont to do, when they're things that you want to remember, but that you also maybe try not to, because you know you probably shouldn't, because you know you're walking a fine line between being OK with all of this, and not being OK with it at all.

Blur, blur, blur.

"Make yourself at home."

"I will," he replies, with exaggerated tartness. "I'm going to lay on your bed." He throws himself jauntily onto my just-remade bed. I step into the bathroom to brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair, and swipe a makeup remover-soaked cotton ball under my eyes. I do these things with the door closed. Because he's not my boyfriend. He hasn't been my boyfriend since July, in fact.

July.

I come out, we take each other in with smiles. I feel well rested, in a great mood. He's not well rested, but is in a good mood anyway. I throw myself on top of him and he hugs me tight, growling and burying his face in my hair, my neck. I pull back to look at him for a moment, then jump back up to blow my nose in the bathroom. Spring allergies.

When I come out, I lay with my chest between his legs, which are bare except for long khaki shorts—an extremely rare wardrobe choice for him. I run my hands up his thighs, raising my eyebrows playfully at him.

"Stoooooppp."  He's grinning though.

"What?" I say with faux innocence. "I just want to see if there's any cargo in these cargo shorts." The grin widens. "Well, is there?"

He doesn't move an inch. "Get outta here."

"You're going to have to clear it with customs if there is. And I've heard the customs officer is a real cunt." I emphasize the last word. We're smiling like idiots.

What else is new.

He reaches down towards me, the grin growing more coy by the second. "I've heard she can be a real whore..."

- - -

Afterward, my head on his chest, he asks if he can buy me dinner. I scoff. "Oh my god. You don't have to buy me dinner. This isn't a commerce-based transaction."

He pulls away to look at me, his voice rising in genuine indignation. "Fuck you! I know this isn't commerce. I'd just like to get dinner with you."

We stop at his place so he can change first, and on the way over, he takes my hand. When we cross a busy intersection, he moves to position himself between me and the rush-hour traffic, which inches impatiently into the crosswalk. In his apartment, I wait while he puts on a clean shirt and jeans. I wander around his living room and kitchen, feeling like a stranger among familiar things—clothes I've helped fold, a guitar I've watched him play, a pocket knife I've fiddled with a dozen times before. "Be careful with that," he says, when he sees me fiddling anew. He shows me his rooftop, which I'd yet to see. When we step out onto the terrace, the cold hits us hard, and without a word he takes off his heavy leather coat and drapes it over my shoulders.

On the way out of the building we run into an acquaintance of his. Pause for a conversation, introductions. Afterward: Ugh, I don't like that guy. We had it out pretty badly recently. Tells me the story. You should be nice to him, I advise. Clean slate. He clearly idolizes you. I could see it in his face, in his body language. - Yeah, well, he thinks I'm a reputable artist. That's his problem. I shoot him a look. You are a reputable artist. 

Back down on the street, the city has grown hectic around us. Sushi? - Perfect. - Little Tokyo? - Yes. Let's drive though. Indecision as to where. Yelp something good. - I can't. I'll throw up. - Yelp makes me nauseous, too. I hate that site - Shush. I can't look at my phone when I'm in a car, I'll get carsick. - What about the place we went to that one time, in the Arts District? - The one when we went running? - No, the other one. Where the chef gave us free samples. - No, let's go someplace else. - What about the ramen place, where we sat at the counter? - Is that what you want? - I don't know. - How about the place on First, with the good tempura, and that mango soda I like? - We could do that. 

Running through our options feels like leafing through a tour book of our relationship. Yep, ate there. Remember it because it was the night we talked about possibly living together one day. Yep, remember that place, too. You humored me by joining me on the longest, coldest run ever that night, even though you hadn't run in ages.

All of this is in my head, of course.

Dinner. Dumplings, shrimp tempura, miso soup, noodles, sashimi, rice, mango soda. While we wait for our food, sitting at the sushi counter, he shows me the misunderstood spider meme on his phone. When I laugh loudly, he sighs, looking momentarily sad. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing. It's just good to hang out with you, that's all."

A pair of middle-aged blond women relocate from their table to sit adjacent to us. They speak excitedly in German, studying the menu and looking over at our plates. I catch the expression on Greg’s face.

"You'd so talk to those women if you were alone." He doesn't answer, but laughs guiltily. "You totally would. You love talking to people. You'd totally be all friendly and charming to them, wouldn't you? Because you'd know they're tourists, and you'd want to be nice to them."

"Yeah, or to fuck with them."

Blur, blur, blur.

We rehash and revisit the relationship, as we compulsively, inevitably do. When he feeds me bites of food with his chopsticks, I shake my head. "Remember how mad I used to get? When you'd try to get me to eat things I didn't want?" He nods. "Why did I do that? So dumb. You were only being sweet. I should be so lucky, that someone wants to show that kind of care to me."

He shakes his head. "Yeah, but come on. That was annoying. I got really pushy about it." But I won't accede.

"No," I say. "It was ridiculous of me."

And so it goes. We rehash and revisit. We apologize, we take accountability for this, we refuse to let the other person take responsibility for that. I'm told I was the best relationship he's had. I'm told I was his favorite girlfriend. I'm told I'm awesome and amazing and so smart and so talented and so pretty. Prettiest pumpkin in the patch. I smile. - I love when you say that. - I've said that before?? - Shut up, you know you have. 

Somehow, the subject of my father comes up. Somehow, I start to tell the story of the recent dentist's letter. I get as far as "...because apparently, he had an appointment scheduled for October..." before hot tears surprise me, choking me mid-sentence. The German women glance over.

Greg, who is straddling the chair he's turned to face me directly, squeezes my arm briefly before wordlessly lifting my purse from the back of my chair. "Let's go," he says softly, and puts his hand lightly on my elbow to help me up. As I move past him, wiping my eyes quickly in the busy restaurant, he wraps his arms around me. He holds me like this for a moment before letting me walk outside, where he again hugs me.

I tell him about having written to a reader of my blog a few days ago, a young women who recently lost her own dad. "You know," I say, as we walk slowly down the sidewalk, "I put a lot of effort into my blog. I really do. I try to make it somewhat interesting, even helpful, on occasion. I try to write things that will make people laugh or smile or maybe even think. But nothing I've ever written felt as good as the letter I wrote this girl. She's so young, Greg." I look at him. "She's so young. And I felt like I knew what to say to her, you know? I knew what would feel good to hear." He nods. He listens. He tells me for the hundredth time how resilient I am. How much I've bounced back - in his eyes, anyway.

And then he takes me for frozen yogurt.

Which we gorge on while walking back to his car. Where he takes my hand briefly, to kiss the back of it, before returning it to my lap. Where he plays Bon Iver and Angus Stone while we drive to my street. Where he drops me at my door, but not before inviting me to the art show he's on his way to. Where he texts me from a little bit later, with a picture of one of the sculpture's descriptions. Which I read carefully and reply back about, before picking up the conversation with Spyro again, telling him where I've been for the past few hours.

Never take relationship advice from me again. I'm the world's biggest hypocrite.

You suck almost as bad as I do. 

I feel like I want to vomit my heart up. 

You could have come down here and laughed your ass off. You should be here. 

Sorry, too busy putting my heart through a meat grinder.

Stop. You're better than this.

We text for a little bit, but I can barely keep my eyes open, I'm so exhausted. Spyro's a good friend. He says all the right things to prop me back up after this unexpected little storm dustup of emotion, and to help me get my head back on straight. And that's what I start to do, as I drift off, vacillating between the need to write it all out, the fear of misrepresenting what went down, and the uncertainty as to precisely what that was, anyway.

The facts are these: it's very easy for me to get swept up in the good feelings of being around Greg: the affection and the playfulness and the care he shows me. And the intimacy. Because intimacy is nice. But nothing has changed. We are still who we are, with all the same things to offer one another which are good, but all the same things to thwart a healthy relationship, which are bad.

So it was just ... what it was. And today we return to status quo. And I'm mostly ok with it, even though I have a few creeping regrets that are less easy to kill than spiders with books, because I have this neat little trick my brain does, which is to go blur, blur, blur...

March 28, 2013

Mason and Spyro are coming into town today, with another friend of theirs, to go to the U of A game. Apparently, we're all going out before and after the game, and hijinks have been promised/threatened. More on that momentarily. 

I'm really excited to see them, particularly because this is the first time in over a decade that I'll get to see them together. I've seen them individually since, and we talk and text all the time, but as far as being all together? Not since we all lived in Tucson. 

I have an oft-ridiculous but wholly awesome relationship with these guys, both of whom I've known since I was 21. They're like brothers to me, and they've been great, supportive friends through some of the roughest times of my life. They've also ushered me into a sort of boys club amongst some of their other friends, who've now become my friends, and who I spend time with independent of them. I'm treated as an honorary member of this otherwise men's only group—friends whose collective narrative spans some fifteen years. 

Naturally, it's a lot of fun—and a source of endless entertainment—to be considered one of the guys. The competition and one upmanship that goes on between them is hysterical to witness, and I get behind-the-scenes privileges that I don't take lightly. But it means I'm subjected to the same teasing, ball-busting, and brutal honesty to which they treat one another. Usually, I can take it. Sometimes, though, I cry uncle. But no matter how pissed off at or annoyed by one another we get, we remain friends who can call one another up in the dead of night to bemoan love lost or just shoot the shit. They're both huge supporters of my writing, and I know I could tell them anything. 

When I go to Burning Man this summer, it will be in the company of these guys. And even though I'm planning on splitting off and doing my own thing for much of it, I cannot wait to spend some time with them there. 

And today, I get to see them. Both! And I will try not to Instagram the day into oblivion, though they know the score, and are endlessly patient with my impulse to document. Spyro, today: 

Be prepared for day drinking.

I'll get my sippy cup ready.

I want a fresh roll of memory cards for all those unforgettable Instagrammablicious moments that only we can capture together.

I think if we do it right, we should NOT want evidence / documentation, no?

Don't taunt me. I've got pharma companies from remote labs in Iowa backwoods supporting me on this trip. 

April 16, 2013

Hello.

I got home from Coachella yesterday afternoon, and promptly climbed into bed with Chaucer, where he passed out with his head on my shoulder and slept harder and snored louder than I've ever seen him do.

I spent a few hours obsessively reading all of the news from Boston, crying when I saw the picture of the man in the wheelchair with his motherfucking legs blown off, before I fell asleep around ten. I didn't wake up until one this afternoon.

I dreamt a lot, about music and sex and weird reconfigurations of things I saw at the festival, art installations and acrobatics and stages, about people I met there and people I know back at home.

When I woke up, my head felt like a scrambled circuit board, and it hasn't stopped feeling that way yet. I think I overdid it this past weekend, and I think I'm going to be paying for it for a few days yet.

I'm really saddened and disgusted by the marathon bombings. Here I just spent three days celebrating what to me is some of the best of humanity—the creativity and community and pure joy that can come forth when we put some effort into life. And then the very next day, I'm slapped back to reality with the very ugliest side of humanity.

I read that some 25-30 people have had amputations. And not that their legs are any more special than anyone else's, obviously, but presumably a majority of these new amputees are runners. Fucking runners. The viciousness just makes me want to throw up.

On top of that, I'm coping with some negative feelings about some personal crap that just all unraveled today, making me feel like shit about myself.

So it might be a little while yet, all these things combined, before I feel like writing about Coachella, but I did want to say hello.

Hello.

April 19, 2013

Well, I wasn't gonna do this to myself, but then I decided to do this to myself. No plans for tonight, anyway. May as well have a date with the ghost of Ellie past. I hope she likes Chardonnay, because that's all that's in the fridge.

Five years ago right now, to the hour, as I am composing this, I was getting married.

And I'll tell you right now, I have no idea where, if anywhere, this post is going. I can see some vague "Aaaaand it all turned out ok in the end!" sun setting on the horizon, but I'll try to steer the ship clear of cliches, because really, right now, all I wanna do is look at some pretty wedding pictures.

Because holy christ was my wedding pretty, full of pretty things, pretty people, and pretty moments.

God, it was such a beautiful day. I was going to add a bunch more photos, of all the pretty details, the flowers and the clever table decor, but gah, enough. This is already overly sentimental as it is. I shouldn't fetishize the material, or the materialistic. It was gorgeous. I know it was. And I'll always remember it that way.

And incidentally, I'm not trying to blot out the existence of my ex-husband, by showing him so slightly. It's just that we're not in touch anymore, and I don't want to drag him into my little exercise in navel-gazing. He's moved on, and I wish him nothing but the best.

Anyway, it's irresistibly seductive, to look back at all of it. But now what? What do I do with all of this, now that it's laid out before me, like a bunch of flowers strewn across the bed? Is there some pat takeaway to be had, if I just distill it all down?

Probably not.  

It was another time. I was another person. Life happens. Life goes on. Most of the people in those photos aren't even a part of my life any more. Some are still firmly planted in it, though.

I didn't have bridesmaids, but I had a best man, Mason. And at this very moment, he's in NYC, at a rehearsal dinner for another friend's wedding where tomorrow he'll resume the best man mantle again—for the fourth time, in fact. Four times as a best man. Not to brag or anything, but that should give you an idea of how good I am at picking friends.

Other than that, I've still got my other best friend—Chaucer. And that, folks, is about all that is the same in my life, five years after these photos were taken. 

It's not that surprising, I guess—a lot can happen in five years. My current life is populated by people I didn't even know existed, when I stood in front of that mirror in Tucson, Arizona, carefully applying my wedding day lipstick. I guess if nothing else, that's an encouraging thought. The months leading up to and following our separation were brutally painful and scary, and even though people promised me that amazing things were waiting for me, just around the corner, I didn't believe them. 

They were right, though. 

If nothing else, then, I guess I could spin this post into some kind of pep talk for those who are struggling - particularly those stuck in unhappy marriages? I could say something like, Chin up, your life will be unrecognizable in a few years! But I don't know those people, and I don't know that it will be.  Reflective posts are too tempting, to wax facile. I don't want to be facile. 

My life is unrecognizable, five years later. Am I happier now? Yes. No question. Don't be fooled by those photos. I mean, I was happy that day. We both were; we really, truly were. But that was just one day. And if you can't be happy on the day that you're surrounded by all of your loved ones, who are holding you so close in their hearts, pouring love and attention onto you, then good grief, forget it. 

But wedding days come and go, and then you're left with the reality of the daily. And our reality wasn't reflected in any of these pretty pictures. I married a fun-loving, funny man, who was entirely wrong for me. But that wasn't even the real problem. The real problem was that I had no business even getting married to begin with. I had no idea who I was, or what I wanted out of life. Hell, I'm still figuring those things out!

I got married because I was desperate to feel, and to find meaning in my life. To be something. Becoming a wife was the perfect answer, because it let me off the hook of designing a life for myself.  Getting married created an insta-life for me. An insta-existence. An insta-identity. But it didn't work, and I was miserable. I hated myself, I hated my husband, and I hated marriage. I felt suffocated and trapped, lost, unsure of who I was, unsure of who we were, and just so, so unhappy. Christ, it's only in the past few years that I've started to understand the things I need to make myself happy. My former, younger self didn't stand a chance.

Anyway. What a terrible, rambly, pointless post this is! Ugh, sorry. I just wanted to look back a little bit. Five years is a milestone, after all, even if it's an inverted anniversary. It's a little bit melancholy, but mostly it's relieving. I'm worlds away from the person I was in these photos. She wasn't a bad person, but she was a person who had a lot of growing to do. She still does. But she's happy to have the chance to do it.

The older I get, the more I understand how little I really know. Five years on and I'm still working to understand my place in the world. But five years on, I think I'm doing ok. 

April 26, 2013

Context, part the first: Mason has been seeing a girl named Ashleigh, and for no good reason, I have been teasing him about the way she spells her name. Well, maybe for this reason: she's, like, eighteen or something. (Ok fine, she's twenty-seven. Same thing.) We also have a rich and storied history of assigning less than flattering nicknames to one another's flames/SO's, because we are besties and NO ONE IS EVER GOOD ENOUGH FOR MY BESTIE (and vice versa). Anyway, my new Text Joke That Never Dies is to similarly change the spelling of every word with a long e sound, because mockery. So for instance when she was at church the other day, I cracked wise about how At least she's close with her famileigh! And when he forwarded a pic of her in a room with questionable decor, it was She's cute, but her design skills leighve something to be desired. Etc, etc.

This is the level of comedy you get, as one of my friends. Pick up your application at the post office.

Context, part the second: I want to be delicate here, but the fact is, there've been a few guys lately expressing some interest in/paying some attention to me, in one fashion or another. And that, like, never happens. For real. So that's been the topic of some recent conversations with Mason And I do not mean to even REMOTELY imply that there's some line around the block, but there has been a 300% (give or take) increase in the amount of Presumably Available Dudes Somewhat Into Ellie over the past few weeks. Anyway, that's context, part the second. 

Context, part the third: I've been making pasta sauce with some frequency lately. 

So tonight, I'm just putzing around cleaning, cooking, not writing Coachella recaps—stuff like that, when Mason texts.

So who did you spin the wheel and go on a date with tonight?

Oh, you got jokes? That's very funneigh.

HAHAHAHA

This is my date tonight. I send a pic of a bubbling saute pan on my stove, and the cutting board beside it. THAT'S FRESH BASIL, BITCH. 

Why don't you branch out, Bataleigh?

IT'S CALLED RECIPE MASTERY, OK? We only move on once when we've perfected.

That's why I had pop tarts earlier.  I'm officially over [my ex] btw. She's sitting twenty feet away from me, might as well be my mom.

She's with what's his ugly?

Yeah, laughing it up like he's Chris Rock.

Ugh. Are they showing off for you?

Yes. Total peacocking.

Children.

I realize why I'm in love with my new haircut, btw.

Oh?

The lady CHANGED my hairline.

Like, brought it forward with her artful shearing?

Yes!! It's like a face lift.

Dude, I want one. Does she do asses?

May 1, 2013

It kills me that I have to thank Facebook. I mean, really. I've been grinding that axe for years. Facebook sucks. Facebook is evil. Who needs Facebook? I've done just fine keeping in touch with the people I want to keep in touch with, without it.  

All of that still holds true, as far as I'm concerned. But credit where credit is due. And this wouldn't have happened without The Book. So thanks, Zucky (she said, with her middle finger extended).

Also deserving credit: sleeplessness. Sleeplessness on an early Saturday morning, coupled with the realization that my twenty year high school reunion is coming up, and a morbid curiosity as to what those twenty years have done with (to?) some of my classmates. What does one do with this formula? Well naturally, one Facebooks.

I think if you hooked me up to an EKG, and/or whatever equipment is used to monitor brain waves, you could probably chart the visceral reaction of my body to logging on to Facebook. I mean, I just fucking cringe, I really do. And I don't even have a single thing on my page, other than a couple profile photos. No personal info. Nothing on my timeline. No friends. I totally get that if you've been 'booking since the beginning, all of that stuff just sort of fleshed itself out with the new formatting. But I only rejoined within the last year-ish, and only because Spotify held a gun to my head to make me do so. (Assholes.) And I don't have any interest in going through and filling all of it out at this point. I mean, I know who I am and what I've been doing with my life. I know who my friends are, and where to find them. I'm good, thanks.

(God, look at me. I can't go five lines without 'bookslamming. Really do hate it though. Have I mentioned that?)

Anyway, I logged on because I was curious to see if there'd been a page set up about my twenty year reunion (there has, but no date set yet). And one thing led to another, and I found myself typing a name in the search box. No, not an ex-boyfriend. I'm not that masochistic. Just a girl who I knew in another lifetime, who during that lifetime, meant the world to me. (Alas, who we are between the ages of ten and eighteen doesn't always bear much resemblance to the adults we grow into. And that girl broke my heart worse than any boy ever has. But that's another story for another time, if ever, though probably not, because there's nothing to be gained by raking over those long-cold coals.)

So I looked at this girl's page, this erstwhile friend, for a minute or two—at her status updates and kids' pictures, and the photographic grid that comprises her network of friends. And I let myself surf the wave of contradictory feelings that always, predictably, rolls in when I engage in this semi-annual exercise: sadness, pride, wistfulness, relief.

And then I saw a name and a face in a square, with six letters underneath it: SCI-Arc.

And I frowned. No way, I thought to myself. No fucking way. Because those six letters denote a place downtown, where I live - an architecture school - walking distance from my apartment.

And the name and the face belonged to a boy this girl and I knew in high school, in Arizona - a boy two years my junior, with whom we were friends, but with whom I was better friends. In fact, I won't lie; I felt a proprietary pang when I saw him listed as her friend, because nuh uh. Because Sure, you were in the same classes, and some of the same plays. But mostly, you were busy doing your cheerleading/Homecoming Queen/modeling thing. And you weren't there for the best bits. For the back row giggles and the goofing off after school. For the inside jokes and the connection, and that unique blend of teenaged angst-meets-crush, of unknowns and miscommunications, of ego and adolescent attraction. But hey, it's cool. You got to play with pom poms. 

The name and the face belonged to one of the very, very few people from my past that I would welcome in my present.

I had to message him. I didn't even hesitate.

I tried to pitch a lighthearted but sincere tone. A hey-wow-you-work-where-I-live-aint-that-crazy-haha? tone. A look-I-hate-Facebook-but-I-couldn't-resist-saying-hi tone. I didn't say anything about meeting up. Just that I wanted to say hello, and cheers to having survived these twenty years. Fear of rejection is a terminal condition.

After I clicked send, I realized I may have made a mistake. For selfish and unselfish reasons. Selfish being the realization that I'm not sure I want to be on anyone's radar, even people I once cared for. I've loved being off the grid, in terms of my past. I've loved letting them wonder. And unselfish being the realization that it might not be the coolest thing, to randomly parachute into someone's life after so long. I knew nothing about this person, other than the glimpses I'd had, of the man he was starting to become some two decades ago. My message in a bottle might be an unwelcome discovery, on whatever island he's drifted to.

He didn't, after all, appear to be a big Facebooker. He appeared to be a man who was happily, quietly living the life he'd been living since I'd last lain eyes on him in the 90's.

But he didn't keep me in suspense long, and his response to my note was warmer and kinder and more enthusiastic than any Girl From the Past has a right to expect. We swapped phone numbers that same day, and made plans to meet for a drink the next night.

And tonight we had that drink, and another after it, and spent four hours tripping down memory lane, and then backtracking to the present day, seeing as we did so where our paths ran surprisingly parallel. And I don't know how to describe what it was like, without resorting to cliche and bad metaphors. So I'll just spew out some words and thoughts, and maybe the right shape will form.

Unexpected, but heartwarmingly familiar. The confidence and sure carriage of a man who's grown into himself, and who knows who he is. A far cry from the gawky fifteen year-old with darting eyes and a nervous giggle - though the giggle remains untouched, instantly recognizable, and just as contagious as ever. I stole sidelong glances at him as we toured the silent, empty school where he works, and listened to the way he spoke with gratitude and self-effacing humor about the life he's built for himself. Seeds of sensitivity and shyness - things that tangle up and twist a teenage boy into knots, into his own worst enemy - sprout and bloom, and manifest as deeply admirable qualities in a man: empathy, humility, and self-awareness.

We carefully unfolded pages from the past and compared notes. He shared things with me about his life as a teenager that I'd had no idea of. Painful, heartwrenching things that made me wish I could reach back to 1993 and hug the everloving shit out of the boy largely responsible for making it such a fun year. Things that made me cry, to think of him silently bearing, during a time when I knew him only as a happy, fun-loving kid who lived to make other people laugh.

He told me what he remembered of me - of teenaged me. And it was like someone handing me a flattering snapshot of myself and saying, Hey, I think you dropped this.

He told me what he remembered of my father. And it was like someone delivering a letter, twenty years late, that had been lost in the mail. An unexpected few minutes' worth of delight on this, the one year anniversary of his death. And I was so, so grateful for it, though I couldn't tell him, because if I'd tried to, I would have cried (again).

But mostly it was catching up on who we've since become, telling one another a bit about the things we've come to love in life - many of which are the same, it was lovely to learn. And then he drove me home and we pledged to get together again soon. And it was just so goddamn nice to be able to peer into the past and not have to cover my eyes for once. 

May 9, 2013

I'm already beside myself by the time I get to Palm Springs, from which I still have another thirty minutes of driving. The ride out has been nearly four hours of stop and go festival traffic: cars and vans and small RVs loaded with kids in shorts, telltale wristbands, and not much else. Legs on dashboards, tanned arms tapping window frames, sunglassed smiles sizing one other up across lane dividers. For my part, I've switched from an electronic stream on SoundCloud to blasting Of Monsters and Men. 

I am so, so ready.

Greg texts me as I'm about to pull off the freeway. I take it all back. I don't know how much of that to take. I took some a little while ago and it's mixed. Maybe try taking 1/3 of what I gave you, waiting an hour, and then going from there.

He's talking about the handful of dried mushrooms that are sitting in a small baggy on the hotel room desk, atop a laminated room service menu. I picked the shrooms up from him at his apartment the Friday prior, where he carefully portioned them out into what he imagined would be three solid trips.

My hotel is way beyond what I expect, because I haven't really paid much attention to where I'm staying. By the time I booked it, my choices were very few, and I don't care what it looks like as long as I have a roof over my head at night and a place to shower in the morning. Well, it has that and then some. In fact, it's pretty impressive, which makes me feel substantially better about the arm and leg I've forfeited to pay for it. I have a room over the pool—a really nice room, in fact. And the staff is incredibly friendly. 

I unpack while I text with Cameron, who's late night channel surfing.

I wish you were here. Palatial hotel, massive two bed room over a waterfall pool with tiki torches, and enough drugs to make Pablo Escobar blush.

Where are you? Coachella? Thought that was all tents and such. ...You had me at drugs. 

I'm not camping. You don't have to camp. There's tons of hotels.

He sends me a picture he's taken of the cable guide channel: a title and a description. The American Bible Challenge. 11-12 am. A game show in which teams answer questions about the Bible. (Game Show, 60 mins.)

What do they win? A cruise on an ark?

A single box of Rice-A-Roni, but Jesus will make it last a whole year. ...It's so sad. The nuns are playing to support some nuns without any retirement.

Doesn't exactly recommend God as an employer.

Actually, since they're brides of Christ, I think it's less about the lousy boss and more a matter of marrying badly. Next game: guess the biblical tweeter.

As curious as I am about biblical tweetage, I tell Cam I need to finish getting ready for tomorrow and crash. I skit nervously about the room, arranging and rearranging what I've brought. Clothing, toiletries, snacks, my own blanket, sheet, and pillow. Scissors, tape, rubber bands, and baggies. 

I text Greg again.  

Hey, what was the verdict on the mushrooms? 

He replies by way of a painting. It's...intense.

Whoa. That's amazing. It's so different for you.

I'm very stoned.

I see that. Can you give me a lil guidance on the shrooms? I don't want to overdo it or underdo it. 

He replies with two more photographs of two different paintings. Vivid color, abstract human form, oversized and aggressive. 

Greg? Focus. Did you do anything other than the shrooms?

Stick with what I said last time. Take two caps and two stems to start.

He calls me and we chat for a few minutes. He's high, but lucid. He's leaving for New York the next day, for his niece’s naming ceremony. He wishes he could come to Coachella instead. He's going to get off the phone now, because he misses me and he's going to get sappy.

After we hang up, he sends one more text.

I hope you have the best weekend ever. :)

It takes me hours to fall asleep, exhausted as I am. The anticipation is a stronger drug than anything I've brought from LA.

- - -

Friday morning I do a thing that can't really be called "waking up", because the transition isn't that defined. I just sort of drift from a state of wakeful dreaming to one of dreamy wakefulness. I haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to healthily sustain myself for what the day has in store, but whatever, it's Coachella. I've been banking “healthy" for weeks, for just this scenario: eating well, exercising, barely drinking, and sleeping on as regular a schedule as I can.

I've been hoarding vice points, and I'm going to cash every one of those suckers in this weekend.

But it's only eight a.m., and vice is still fast asleep even if I'm not, so I order a small pot of coffee from room service and slide the heavy balcony door open. The desert morning is everything I remember: that certain quality of light, the redness of the dirt, the subdued chirping, and the unmistakably dry smell in the air. When I retreat back into the still-dark hotel room, I notice how prettily the daylight spills in, and I take a couple pictures of the view—and myself inserted into it. I post a risque shot to Instagram, feeling giddy and hedonistic. And we're off...

After coffee and some emails, it's still only a quarter after nine, and much as I'd love to sneak in a nap, I know my excitement will make it impossible. So I slip on my shoes and head downstairs to explore. It's hot, really hot, but before I know what I'm doing, I've broken into a light jog around the grounds. I quickly realize this is a waste of my energy, and head back to the cool of my room.

Showering, hair and makeup, dressing and packing my backpack are a snap, since I've already got everything neatly laid out for the day. The only thing that remains to be done before I leave is portioning out and hiding whatever drugs I want to take to the festival today.

Despite having meticulously planned out every other detail of my weekend, I'm still not sure how I want to go about this. I'm assuming that security at Coachella will be similar to what it's been at Bonnaroo and Outside Lands: a quick once-over of my bag and belongings, and the most cursory of pat downs. I've never had a problem smuggling contraband into a festival, whether I hide it in my bra or leave it more or less in plain view in my bag; say, inside my sunglasses case, or zipped into the coin pouch I use as a wallet. It's just never been an issue.

On this trip, I've brought a couple of small lidded mixing cups from an art supply store to stash my, uh, stash in. I wanted something that would keep the MDMA tablets and the mushroom pieces from getting crushed, when they were transferred, post-security, into my backpack. The cups are about the diameter of quarters, and maybe half an inch thick. They cost three dollars, I think, for a set of twelve.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have anticipated the near heart attack that these stupid little pieces of plastic would give me, in about two hours' time.

- - -

On the shuttle ride in, I'm antsy and anxious. I switch my phone back and forth from airplane mode about a half dozen times, trying to gauge how much battery power I lose after sending a handful of texts and replying to a few comments on Instagram. I've brought a mobile charging pack for my phone, but I hate the feeling of being incommunicado, and don't want to go dark until the last possible minute.

I glance down the front of my camisole about every thirty seconds, where I can see two lidded cups plainly. I've carefully divided out today's serving of Happy between them, as well as extra, Just In Case. Each container has a few pieces of shroom and two purple tabs of ecstasy—way more than I'll need or should take, but You Never Know. The tiny cups are resting in the space between the corset wiring of my top and the bottoms of my breasts. I plan on buttoning up the second shirt I've brought over my camisole, as soon as I get off the bus. The containers will be completely out of view, and can only be felt if someone very deliberately feels me up. The security persons who patted me down at the previous two festivals I attended barely touched my rib cage and sides, much less the area around my breasts.

I'm convinced I'm going to breeze through without a problem.

Well.

Well, get out your popcorn, bitches, because shit is about to get entertaining.

There are two security checkpoints to get into Coachella, when you enter the festival on a shuttle. I did not know this.

Both security checkpoints are incredibly thorough. I did not know this.

Pat downs at these security checkpoints are extremely thorough. I did not know this.

I'm gonna paint you a picture of the next twenty minutes, which were some of the most nerve-wracking, if hilarious, of my entire life. First, know that it is some ninety degrees out. Blazingly hot. It's noon. The sun is beating down on me and a few ten thousand twenty-somethings. Fuck them. This is my story right now. But they were there. In clusters and pairs, loud, drunk, excited, singing, sweaty, and also loud.

I approach the first checkpoint, which is a series of metal scanning machines (for wristbands), manned by security teams of one man and one woman—men to pat down the men, and women to pat down the women. Since I'm one of a small handful of people disembarking the early shuttles, there are essentially no lines yet. So everything happens really, really fast.

Before I know it, I'm standing in line behind two girls, both of whom are handing over their purses to be checked. I notice that security is looking through these purses pretty closely. Ok, no problem. Nothing in my bag, anyway.

Then I witness the first pat down. And I realize I'm fucked. Eight ways from Sunday fucked. I watch as the female security officer runs her hands over every inch of the girl's body. This is only a slight exaggeration. Forget rib cages. The security staff person not only firmly, slowly, and thoroughly slides her hands up and around the girl's sternum and bra line, she lifts the bottom of the girl's bra.

LOL

Now, imagine being me, with my load of organics/inorganics tucked oh-so-conspicuously into a bra top that, in about twenty seconds, is going to be completely felt up and pulled out. There is no way this woman is not going to feel these containers in my shirt. No way in hell. The jig is up. And if by some miracle she doesn't feel them with her hands, they're going to fall out when she slides her finger underneath the top with the express purpose of dislodging exactly this sort of shit.

But there are already people in line behind me at this point, and there is nowhere to go. If I were to step out of line, a) it would look majorly suspicious, and b) I'd have nowhere to go, anyway! There are no bathrooms at this checkpoint. The shuttles are leaving. The only traffic flow is through security and into the festival. Not to mention, it's broad daylight and I'm amongst maybe ten, fifteen people tops, most of whom are either looking directly at me or facing my general direction. If I reach into my shirt right now, it's going to be clear as day what I'm doing.

So as far as I can tell, I'm totally fucked. And there's nothing I can do but just go with it, and when I get busted, say something like, Oh well, you caught me, haha, you can just keep that stuff, thanks...I can haz entrance into Coachella Music Festival now, plz?? 

Well, this is what happens: I'm next. I step up to the female security officer. I'm asked to take off my outer button down. I do so, and hand it over. She shakes it out. She looks through my bag. She asks me to open my sunglasses case, to unroll my socks.

All of this takes maybe fifteen seconds. It feels like hours.

She asks me to turn away, and then she pats me down, just as thoroughly as she did the previous two girls. My hips, my sides, my thighs—even the area around my crotch. Aaaaaand she gets to my top. Aaaaaaand sure enough, she feels the plastic containers in my bra. She's standing directly behind me as it happens. She's about twenty eight, maybe thirty years old. She's somewhat shorter than me. My face is turned back toward hers, so I see the look come into her eyes. A slight crease in her brow. Wait a second, what the heck is--

"It's the boning of my corset top," I blurt out, in the snottiest, smuggest, most condescending Valley girl tone I can muster. I look directly down at her, over my shoulder, as I say it. My voice brooks no dissent. It's the voice of a girl who is NOT going to deal with this shit, thank you so very much, because ohmygawd, it's hot okaaaayyy? And this is my rully awesome Free People top with CORSET BONING, okaayyyyy?? And could you be any stupider for not realizing that that's what you feel??  I mean, HELLO??

And people? It works. It unbelievably fucking works. The girl has her hands ON these plastic cups, she can feel them plain as day in her fingers, but whether it's my ohnoyoudon't tone, or the fact that it was all happening so fast, or the fact that she knew but just didn't want to deal with it...it works.

And she says "Okay," and waves me through, and down the dirt path towards the festival field.

Which is great. Except that it's only the FIRST. FUCKING. CHECKPOINT.

- - -

So now I'm shaking like a leaf, obviously, and I know this isn't going to fly a second time. And people are starting to pour in by the thousand from the camping section, into the grassy area that constitutes this next, main security checkpoint. Lines of several hundred people are forming quickly. Clusters of kids singing, cavorting, downing the beers they can't bring in. Hot. So, so hot and sweaty.

By now I've transferred the containers to my backpack, for the short term, while I figure out what I'm going to do next. My "plan" (LOL) is to hang back and watch this security, to see what if any loopholes there are to getting through. There are so many people streaming in and pressing up that I'm convinced this has to be a more lax checkpoint—otherwise it would take an hour of waiting in line to just get into the festival.

Well, yeah. That's exactly what's going on. It is about an hour wait. And security is just as tight as it was at the first point. I see that almost immediately. In fact, it's even stricter—there is the added measure of requiring attendees to spread their legs as they receive their pat downs (#foreshadowing). I also see mounted security officers on horses, scanning the crowd for precisely idiots like me—people panicked and scrambling at the last second to hide their drugs.

At some point, I have a truly cringeworthy inner dialogue with myself, where I act as both my parents, every guidance counselor I've ever had, and a handful of my favorite professors (including my high school French teacher)—all shaming and scolding me for this ridiculousness, while I cower in a corner and just nod balefully. What the ever loving FUCK, Ellie? How old are you again? Are you really a nearly forty year old woman, trying to sneak drugs into a music festival?? Mon dieu!! 

Oui. Oui I am.

Welllllll, if you're a woman—or at least a man vaguely familiar with the female anatomy—you know where this story is going. It's going the only place it can go. It's going to the only place it can be kept a secret, and out of sight. The only place it will safely fit.

Yep. That's right. In broad daylight, in plain view of about a thousand (mostly sober) festival goers and at least one pair of mounted security officers (that I saw), your blogmistress crept off to as "private" a patch of grass against the fence as she could find, knelt down to pretend she was adjusting something in her backpack, and shoved two quarter sized plastic containers full of drugs up into her underwear. Thank GOD I was wearing a skirt, right?! Not to mention tight, non-thong underwear!

And let's get specific here. These pat downs? They included a nice little pat-pat-pat of the girls' bikini areas. This shit was no joke, yo. So I couldn't just slip those little guys down the front of my underwear. Oh no. They had to ride up in the undercarriage, if you know whumsaying. Without the help of any, you know, fastening agent? Like tape? Or pins? Or anything at all? That's how secure the cups were. In other words: NOT AT ALL. That's what I had to concentrate on not dropping, as I waddled walked back into line.

FUN TIMES.

Your blogmistress then maneuvered her way—with as natural a gait as she could muster—through a densely packed line of singing, cursing, yelling, laughing, drinking, and sweaty revelers, only occasionally reaching down to make, um, adjustments to her wardrobe and ensure the success of her mission. Basically, I looked like some kind of physically impaired person with a raging STD that I needed to scratch every other minute.

SUPER FUN TIMES.

But bitches, success was had. I was patted, petted, felt up, looked over, and finally, nodded on through, at which point I shuffled my way into The Promised Land, with as cool a game face as I could fake, even though the whole time my thoughts were something like Ohholyshitohholyshitdontdropthemwalkslowohmygodaretheyfallingoutohholyshit, and proceeded with all due haste (if not much grace) to the nearest Port-a-Potty, where I triumphantly relocated my party favors into my backpack, where they goddamn well belonged, because while yes, I admit to enjoying the occasional hallucinogen or empathogen with my live music, I'm still a lady, goddamn it, and I don't appreciate the inconvenience of The Law getting in the way of my Recreational Drug Use, and forcing me to such drastic and truly unladylike measures, okaaayyyyy?

At any rate, I was in.

- - -

So now I'm in. I'm frazzled and sweaty, I'm furious at myself for not having been better prepared for security, but at least I'm in. And I'm glad I've come as early as I have, because in spite of lines that are choking the entrance, the grounds are still pretty sparse. The relatively clear expanse of the main field is relieving to see, and I feel like I can relax, catch my breath, and get the lay of the land.

And it doesn't take long to do so. When I walk the perimeter of the festival, mentally ticking off each of the stages, I'm shocked at how much smaller it seems than Bonnaroo and Outside Lands. I see immediately that this layout has a vastly better flow for foot traffic; stages are closer together and arranged in a way that makes sense and will be easy to navigate in the dark.

While it normally takes me some time to get my "festival legs", at Coachella I feel comfortable almost right away. Bonnaroo and Outside Lands are massive, sprawling festivals which felt intensely crowded, all the time. Coachella instantly feels different to me. Roomy, chill, not overly packed. There's plenty to see—art installations and sculptures and various structures for viewing and climbing—but it doesn't feel nearly as chaotic and jumbled as Bonnaroo, or as epically huge as Outside Lands.

Despite having taken the first shuttle, what with the first day security lines being so ridiculous, I've missed Lord Huron. But I'm okay with it; they're based out of LA, and I'm pretty sure I can catch them back at home sometime. Next up on my schedule, my first show of the festival: Youth Lagoon, in about forty five minutes. This is perfect, because it gives me time to sit down for a bit, take in the sights/sounds, and eat.

On my lunch menu: grilled chicken pita with rice, and a small handful of magic mushrooms. And lots and lots of water to wash it all down.

I find a shaded spot under a tent next to a string of food vendors, near the tented outdoor stage where Youth Lagoon will soon play, lay out my vinyl-backed sheet, and sit to have my meal. Music floods in from every corner of the festival, weighing heavily in the bright afternoon glare. There are small groups of people sitting all around me, and festival staff tending to the tables beside us. I'm completely alone, but surrounded. I'm anonymous.

The food is decent, but nothing remarkable, and I make to myself the only negative comparison that I'll log the whole weekend, between Coachella and the other fests: the food is nowhere near as good or as varied as the gourmet food trucks of Bonnaroo and Outside Lands.

This is the first time I've eaten loose mushrooms; I've only ever had them mixed into small bars of chocolate before. Greg has warned me that they'll taste bitter and awful, and advised me to to tear them into tiny pieces to sprinkle on my food. They don't smell bad at all, I'd said, when he'd handed me the baggie and I'd held it under my nose. They'd smelled to me like tea, or herbs. Trust me, you won't want to eat them plain, he'd replied.

I glance around before casually reaching with both hands into my backpack, which sits open beside me. I carefully pop the lid of one small plastic cup and pick out what looks like a tiny, twisted twig. It's shriveled in a way that reminds me of something my mother kept all of her life, much to my horror and fascination, in the sewing box that now sits on my sideboard: a small section of my umbilical cord.

The stem is easy to crumble into smaller pieces, and I carefully wedge one into a lump of chicken before chewing the combination down to bits and swallowing.

I taste nothing but chicken.

I repeat my efforts with a slightly larger piece of the stem, but again I taste nothing unusual. I have a few more small bites of regular food, sans toadstool, again chewing fastidiously, and follow up with several large swigs from my water bottle. I'm aiming to eat enough to give the high legs, but not so much that it will be eclipsed by my body's digestive efforts.

When I figure I've had enough chicken and rice, I pluck the rest of the allotted shrooms from the container and cup them in my palm. I pinch a centime-sized cap between my fingertips and examine it. It looks like an acorn top, and smells earthy. Gingerly, I take the littlest of bites, careful not to let any flake off and be wasted.

It tastes bland and inoffensive, dry but slightly chewy; like a tiny leaf giving up the ghost in autumn.

I slowly eat the rest of the shrooms in this way, unbothered by the texture or flavor, which actually strikes me as strangely pleasant. This having been done, I pause for a moment—a deep breath, a conscious effort to take inventory of my senses, my surroundings. I've just eaten enough mushrooms that, if I've estimated the dosage correctly, will take me on a harder, deeper trip than I've ever gone before. I've done this on purpose. Today I don't want to experience just a happy, lighthearted and lightheaded tingling of my senses.

Today, I want to hallucinate.

Today I want to feel the full range of effects that this organic drug has to offer, for better or for worse. I've primed myself by reading and listening to the stories of other users. I have some idea what to expect, and I'm both excited and nervous. A tiny voice in the back of my mind has started chirping what ifs at me, posed less like questions than vague threats. What if something goes wrong. What if you react badly. What if you freak out. What if you have some kind of seizure.

But I'm not scared. I've done enough drugs by now to understand how important the mind-body connection is, despite being someone who once scoffed at such a new age concept. It's true though; I've learned that, as with much of life, attitude has a big role in the experience of a drug. Sure: there's only so much conscious effort we can direct into it, and at a certain point chemistry and biology are going to do what they're going to do. But fear makes for a terrible guide, because he just slaps a blindfold on you behind which you cringe and cower until the ride is over.

And I want to see everything today.

- - -

I gather my things, shake off my sheet, and slowly drift over to the Mojave tent, stopping to snap pics of some art along the way.

There's a bit of a crowd at Mojave, but nothing overwhelming. I check them out as I pick my way through groups and pairs, curious to see the sorts of people who are just as into the dreamy, trippy, shoe gaze sounds of Youth Lagoon as I am—to see who cared enough to get here early, and get a good spot.

For myself, I choose the back left section, where I'll have some room to myself but still be in direct line of a massive, angled speaker. It's important to me to find my concert "sweet spot" (that place where I have some breathing room, though not so far back as to feel left out of the scene ), but that's all for naught if I can't hear the music good and loud. Nothing I'm going to think or feel, nothing I'm coaxing my mind and body into experiencing will matter, if the moment isn't scored correctly. Because I'm here for the music, first and foremost. I put down my sheet, though folded up to only allow enough room to sit cross-legged with my bag in my lap. I know there's a good chance I'll want (need) to sit when the shrooms kick in, no matter who's standing around me, and I don't want to be a space hog. Once situated, I look around at the crowd. Young. Really young. Eager. Happy. Gearing up. I check the time. Five minutes until the show starts; twenty minutes since I've finished eating...

It starts fast.

Shockingly fast, in fact.

In my previous experiences with mushrooms, the effect settled on me slowly, almost imperceptibly. There would come a moment when the glint of sunlight would be especially golden and warm, or the tinkling sounds of a fountain would linger suspiciously long in my ears, and I'd know: something was happening. But that was a gentle intensifying of my senses—a teasing them into a state of extra wakefulness, and heightened capacity.

This is something different. This is what I'd seen mentioned on one forum online, in doing my dosage research. The phrase had jumped out at me from the screen, intriguing but a little bit scary, too: The only thing I don't like about shrooms, this poster had written, is the rocket ride up.

The rocket ride up. Rocket ride up. Rocket ride. 

When I'd read that, I'd dismissed it, based on my other experiences. Nah, I'd thought. That's not how they are for me.

Well. Amendment time. That's not how they were for me. Until today.

All of a sudden, it feels as if the air has thickened. That's the first thing I notice: the change in the atmosphere. In my atmosphere. The breeze that was playing across my bare arms is still there, but someone somewhere is squeezing a handbrake, and it h a s   s    l   o   o   o   o   o   o  w  e  d   d o w n. And it feels less like air than...water. The smoothness of water; the way the miniature tides of a heated swimming pool will caresses your skin, in subtle jets and waves—that's what it feels like.

And now it's above me. This water. This weight. I feel as if I'm being pressed to the ground, but not in an oppressive, uncomfortable way. Just a matter-of-fact way. Like, Hm. Well. There's absolutely no way I could stand up right now, even if I wanted to. But whatever, that's cool. I'm sitting. And it feels almost as if there's intent behind it. As if, while I'm obviously not in control, someone or something else is.

I'd shortly know who that someone was.

But for right now, I'm here. I'm sitting. In water. I look around. Whoa. The sun. Very bright. Okay. It's starting. And now color. Color makes itself known. Presents itself. Again—intention. The colors of things shrug off a dull outer layer, like when you run a fingertip down a foggy window. What was there on the other side is suddenly really there. Flushed cheeks are pinker, more alive. I can't see anyone's pores from here, that would be ridiculous!—or the movements of their tongues behind their teeth...but that's what it feels like. Life, magnified. Life, coming to life.

And then I get the giggles. In a really, really bad way. Like, sitting-in-the-back-row-of-homeroom-with-your-best-friend-making-faces-at-you type giggles. Like, absolutely-cannot-make-a-sound-because-if-you-do-you're-getting-detention type giggles. And I'm fascinated by how it happened, because though I may be reaching, I think I understand the genesis of it.

From the moment I'd gotten to the festival, I'd been more than a little bit ... spooked, by how young the crowd was. It seemed much younger to me than Bonnaroo or Outside Lands. And it had challenged me somewhat, and made me more self-conscious than I usually am. And I'd realized when I'd been waiting in line, pressed up hot and sweaty with all of these kids, that I was going to have to work a little bit, to get past those feelings. And the strategy I adopted for the short term? Ignore them. Just blot them out of my sight. Look through and past them. Focus on the fest, on the sights and sounds, and on myself.

And that had worked great up until the mushrooms found out about it. But when they caught wind of what I was doing, they were all, Nuh uh, Ellie. Not so fast. Let's have a closer look at that, shall we? I found myself gazing around at everyone who, wait just a minute--what's going on with time??

And that's when things, heretofore a little bit weird, get really fucking weird. Because I realize, with what remaining shreds of lucidity are fast fleeing my brain, that I have no idea how much time has passed since I've been sitting down. I can't tell if I've been there for hours or seconds. I mean, I know the music hasn't even started yet, I'm aware enough to realize that. But it's as if I've blacked out during the minutes that all of this has been happening. Lost time, as they say.

At any rate, I barely have time to register this psychological development because I'm gazing around at everyone, at all these legs, bare and young, all these faces, bright and smooth. I can hear their voices, emerging into a cacophony of sound that just ... sounds ... so ... young. Like, like...like b a b i e s.

Yes. God. T h e y  s o u n d   l i k e        b    a   b   i   e   s.

You know the dream where you're naked in front of a class, or a lecture hall? And it's the worst, most mortifying and embarrassing thing ever? Now invert that, in every way possible. You're not naked—everyone else is. You're not humiliated—everyone else is. Well, that's what happens. I am suddenly about to watch Youth Lagoon with a crowd of crying, naked, crawling babies.

My brain has seized upon this idea that everyone is so much younger than me, has thrown a jet pack on it, splashed in some nitro, and strapped it to a rocket ride to the fucking moon. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it but hold on tight. I'm not in the throes of hallucination—not yet. I don't actually think I'm seeing a crowd of diapered infants. But my brain is so complicit with the drugs in wanting to see this, in wanting to burst through this barrier I've subconsciously set up for myself, that I don't think I would have reacted much differently if I'd been fully hallucinating. The absurdity of my thoughts pins me down and tickles me until I can't breathe. I look around at these people—adults, all of them—and all I see are helpless, wailing babies.

Already sitting with my knees pulled up tight against my body, I stuff my face into the crook of my elbow, horrified. Oh my god. I'm giggling. I can't giggle. I'm at Youth Lagoon. I look around me, desperate for a partner in crime. Someone must surely see the state I'm in, and even if they don't see what I see, they'll sympathize with the poor girl who's clearly tripping, and smile at me, and wordlessly tell me that it's ok?

Yeah, no. No such comfort to be found. No nasty looks or anything like that. Just, no one's looking at me because, because, wait, what? Because...

...because the music has started. How long has it been going?? I don't know. I don't k n o w. I  d o  n  o t  - - -  w  h  o  a . . .

Down, look down. Dizzy. Heavy. Washing down. Don't look up. Nausea. Too much. Water. Water? On me. Around me? In me? Water? I slowly, slowly, slowly tilt my head down and see a water bottle poking out of my backpack. I take a sip, and in doing so, throw my head back. No. Noooooo. Not up. Don't look up. No. 

Grass. The grass. Focus on the grass. Yes. Just the grass. That little bit, right there, right in front of your legs. Yes. Ok. Ooooooookaaaaay. Grassssss. Green and yellow and you can breathe and yes. Grass. 

Sound.

Sound.

Sound.

Music.

Oh. My. God. The music.

Stop reading this post for a minute. Stop and pull yourself out of it, leave the scene I'm describing and think of a time when you felt immense, jaw-dropping wonder. At some sight maybe, a breathtaking landscape or a beautiful woman—or your first taste of fois gras. Whatever. Some moment when life put out its hand, flat and hard against your sternum, and stopped you in your tracks.

That's what it feels like, when one part of my brain catches up with another part, like kids skipping together on a playground, who've dropped hands when one stopped short, and the other goes on ahead but then her friend runs to catch up—and I realize what I'm hearing, and it isn't just music, it isn't just the same collection of sounds I've been looping on Spotify for months. It's dimensional. It's layered, but not layered in the abstract way music is always described. It has actual, physical layers that I can feel, as if someone is throwing blankets on top of me while I sit there, then yanking them off again seconds later, and then throwing another back on, this one silky and cold, and now here's a quilt, lofty and light, settling s l o w l y and airily on me but wait now it's gone, oh here comes something thick and heavy, wool, on top of me, but now that's gone and here's just the whisper of a sheet and and and

This is what it feels like, but translated into sound.

And I'm staring at the grass, which has started to pulse, the tiny blades are moving, like a moving sidewalk, pulsing and swaying and and and now they're starting to breathe, oh my god, it's breathing, it's alive, the grass is alive and everyone is standing on it!! They don't know! THEY'RE GOING TO KILL IT THEY'RE GOING TO KILL THE GRASS I HAVE TO ---

Shhhhh.

I hear him before I see him.

Shhhhh, he says softly. It's okay. Shhhhh.

And I believe it is okay, because the voice is so sure and true and I trust it. I trust it completely, even if I don't know where it's coming from, even if --

Oh. There. There you are. I stare down at my patch of grass, my safe place to direct my thoughts, my energy. I can see him there. He's in the grass. Was that you?

Yes. It was me. Shhhh.

The tiny blades of grass pulse and sway, some move this way, some move that way. And just in the same way you see shapes emerge from the clouds, I see the monkey in the grass. The shading of colors in the ground is just right; the bits of dryer, yellow grass form his two eyes, his nose, his lips. The slightly shaggier green edges of the patch form the fur around his face. His jaw is lean and angular. His features are sharp. His eyes gaze up and bore into me.

He's actually rather terrifying, but I don't have time to react because because because time is speeding up and slowing down, all in the same split second and and and

this is all too fast, and who's driving? are we moving? is this safe? please slow down (music music music), this water is wet, and the grass monkey said it's ok, because he's obviously not a baby, and is made of tiny yellow pasta noodles, like penne or or or what's that other tube? Macaroni? 

And he's (music music music) directing all of this, conducting it. He's rising floating should I close my or just keep them rising floating directing he's a puppet? No. No. He's a     ....    ringmaster conductor monkey. Just for me. He's just for he said it's ok I'm scared by I thought I was here for the music but Youth Lagoon he's at an organ in the back of the circus tent I'm at a circus for me just my circus the ringmaster monkey is above and floating, large just a face, it's ok, he's in charge, I watch soundtrack by Youth Lagoon and I h a  v  e    t   o   c   losemyeyes now. Now. Now.

But closing my eyes is exactly what he wants me to do. Because that's where the the the

the circus tent what's the circus who's in it animals? no.  people? no who who what is this circus, I can see a big open tent

music music music 

Oh. Oh. Of course. I suddenly get some traction to my thoughts, to this whirlwind of nothingness and everythingness that's spinning me around in my own mind. It becomes clear and simple: just colors and shapes. That's the circus. That's all. I'm going to watch a circus in my mind, with my eyes closed, but instead of animals or people, it will be performed by shapes and colors. Easy peasy. I can do that.

And so, with my ringmaster monkey friend floating up in the corner, overseeing and directing, and Trevor Powers off to the side, working away at his keyboard and his computer, I watch a circus, my eyes shut tight for an hour, while I sit wrapped up in my own limbs. And what sucks is how predictable it is that I'll say something like And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and heard, but I have to, I have to say it. Because it is. It is geometry and light, for an hour straight, behind the drawn curtain of my mind. It is planes and patterns, shrinking and growing, zipping and cutting, flexing and bowing. It is sound that oozes and drips all over everything, coating it and stretching it, teasing it or smashing against it. The mushrooms take the music and enrich it in a way that defies metaphor, and you guys know I love me some metaphor, but I can't even try with this. Just: rich, richer, richest. Enriched.

And there are other things that sneak in there, too. Faces, some scary, all foreign, all with intent that I don't understand. They're there when I open my eyes, hovering in the glow of the afternoon, flattened against the backs of people who don't know they're there. But I like it better in the dark, with my eyes closed, where they recede quicker into the black, and I can contain them. Sort of. All the while, though, I know I'm safe. The monkey figure is a guide and a guru. It feels like he knows me, like he's always known me. I don't know what part of my subconscious has projected him out of me, or what he represents, but I know he won't hurt me, even when his face contorts with the music, ugly and elastic.

It is probably impossible to convey these feelings and thoughts from my brain into yours, even if I spend hours describing them. Or maybe it's not. Maybe you get it. Or you get it enough, anyway. I don't want to sound mega hyperbolic or crazy dramatic or any more obnoxious than I know I already do with this hard-to-read stream of eyeball-stabbing consciousness. You could be sitting there like Lady, enough already, you tripped on mushrooms, we get it. 

If so, I'm sorry, because holy shit was it incredible to me, and exactly what I'd wanted and hoped for, so I can't help but be effusive. It was intense, but not overwhelmingly so. I felt like I went right up to the edge of whatever it was I wanted to edge up to, but I didn't fall off. I just leaned out over the abyss, anchored by some invisible thread, and surveyed the things I knew existed but had never seen.

tldr; Youth Lagoon on shrooms was amazing, and I loved it.

(Even though it didn't even remotely compare to the way I would feel two days later, when everything I thought I knew about the way my mind and body could make me feel would be turned inside out and upside down, taken from me and given back, a promise and a lie that I will tell you and tell myself and nothing will change except for the fact that it happened once, if never again.)

Two caps and two stems. That, I now know, is the going price of admission to the color sound circus in my mind, orchestrated by a macaroni monkey and scored by a genius with black curls and a heartbreakingly haunted look.

I just wish I could have bought him a ticket, too.

- - -

Opening my eyes slowly, taking a breath, taking in where I am and what I'm feeling. My senses and motor function are on a few seconds' delay, so standing and gathering my things, dusting the dried grass off my skirt and putting my backpack on again all represent fair-sized challenges. 

And when I start to walk, picking my way through the dispersing crowd and those who are still on the ground nearby, I realize that I am exceptionally high. The sunlight hits me as I emerge from the shade of the tent, and everything just sort of goes haywire in my brain. All I can think about is the light, which is blinding and hot. So bright. It's really bright. Whoa. Bright. 

I have no idea what I'm doing, or where I'm going. My schedule, so painstakingly put together, flies right out of my head. I'm aware of being at Coachella. I'm aware that there's music to be watched. But I couldn't tell you where on the festival grounds I am, what time it is, how long I've been there, or what on earth I should do next. 

I'm vaguely aware that I should be self-conscious about this, that I'm really on the edge of being in kind of a bad spot—I mean, if I'm so high that I've lost the ability to even navigate, then hell. That's a pretty expensive overdose. But I'm unbothered by this possibility. I only feel a massive sense of bemused detachment. Despite not knowing what the hell is going on, I'm having a blast.

The good news is, the stage I've just left is right beside the one I'm supposed to head to next—literally, a few dozen steps away. And the music emanating from it drifts to me, creeps into my brain, wraps a tendril or two around the right neural pathways, and I realize: Dillon. 

I can't run. That's not a possibility. But I'm okay with that. The sun and sound float me in the right direction, to a tent that is spilling over with a crowd that can't keep still. Everyone is dancing. It's like nothing I've seen yet, at a festival—this daylight-soaked chaos of joy and energy and heat. There are no half-measures. No standing back and watching, no casual swaying and foot-tapping. All these thousands of people are lit up with the music. Skin and sweat and smiles and this is some serious shit, right here. 

The closest I can get is a good ten feet past where the tent ends, in the far back. But it doesn't matter. Others in the same boat as me are just as happy as me just to be there, flooded over with the songs we've been rocking out to in our various ways for months and months. The crowd is one giant animal with a few thousand hearts, all throbbing outside its body. The feedback loop of energy from dj to crowd and back again is incredible, and almost overwhelming. I close my eyes and dance, scorching hot in the afternoon sun. I'm here.

I picture my arms and legs extending out, my fingers reaching to pull into me all these split-second moments and impressions I don't want to forget. I'm sponging it all up frantically. I'm not in any state to think of taking pictures, but here's one from Dillon Francis's Instagram, taken from the stage, that gives you a great sense of the scene:

When it ends, I'm in a bit of a state. Overheated, dehydrated, disoriented. Even a little bit emotional. I buy a bottle of water and try not to bump into anyone as I wander in the direction of the main stages, gulping down water and searching my mind. Next. What's next. 

Stars. Stars is next. 

I've been listening to Stars since college—when I listened to them on CD. I remember the very first time I heard them. Borders Books and Music used to have these listening stations where they'd put up new and popular music. You could pop on a pair of headphones and preview entire CDs. I used to go to the one in Tucson, at Park Mall, and spend inordinate amounts of time at those listening stations. And Stars was one of my finds there. 

Things I associate with their music include, but are not limited to:

relationships in my twenties

existential angst in my twenties 

Okay well that list was going to be much longer, but I realize that pretty much covers it. Suffice to say, Stars were the soundtrack to my twenties. If you're not familiar with their music, it's pretty heavy on romantic narrative, which was the perfect backdrop for the OMGdramaz I (thought I) went through. I really believed I was living a romantic comedy at the time. Zero self-awareness for this one back then. 

Anyway, I've never seen them perform. They're from Montreal, and they tour (and release new albums) with relative frequency, but I've just not seen them yet. And again, totally obnoxious to drop one of those OTT And omgooddddd it was even more perfect than I could have imagined, I know, but it is. It really is. 

I sit off towards the front right. It isn't overly crowded when I sit down, but I do have to move a few times when I keep getting boxed in by standers, because I really, really want to sit. Eventually I give up and have to go pretty far into the foul ball zone, and initially I am frustrated by this, but the sound is still incredible, and when I close my eyes, it doesn't matter where I am. Only once do I have the urge to tweet over the weekend, and it's during the beginning of this show. Because I'm doing this thing I've learned to do at festivals, which is where I shut my eyes and just slowly, slowly let everything and everyone but the music fall away. Then I reconstruct the scene in my mind, bit by bit. First the field, then the stage—then myself. I imagine sitting exactly where I'd want to be sitting. And then in my mind, all with my eyes closed still, I let the field fill back up. But because this is all in my imagination, I'm in complete control of the crowd—how close they are to me, whether they're sitting or standing, and so on.

In other words, the mental space I'm inhabiting at this show looks nothing whatsoever like reality. And that's an awesomely empowering thing to be able to do. So the tweet I briefly had in mind to send was something like Did you know that when you close your eyes, you can be anywhere? But then I realized how random and dumb that would sound, and that I wouldn't be in any kind of state to answer anyone who might reply to it. 

So I sat and listened in my wholly fabricated imaginary environment, and I just let the music have its way with me. And the mushrooms stopped being about heightened sensory awareness, and started being about the Bigger Picture of Life, as they'd been in San Francisco last year. And this really magical and beautiful (I know, I know) thing happened where I had long overdue funeral for my twenties (I know). But really, that's the best way I can put it. I just put to bed some of the demons that have been lurking in my head, that I didn't even know still kept a room up there. A really damaging relationship. An abortion. A mixed bag of regrets related to my family. It just all sort of spilled out onto the table in my head, and bit by bit, I picked it up, looked it over, and then set it down again, finally done with it. Finally at peace.

Oh and the whole time, tears were streaming down my face. 

I was sitting crosslegged by myself, on my little sheet, with my sunglasses on, and my face tilted up to the sun, listening to songs that had moved me so deeply, for so many years, and now were moving me again, across time and emotion to places that I didn't even know needed a return visit. And like I say, I know how ugh annoying it is when someone gushes over some experience, but jesus. It was so beautiful. And it meant the world to me.

After a while I gave up wiping the tears away, because I figured if anything that would draw more attention to the fact that I was crying, if anyone was even looking, and I just let them come. 

And now I'm going to get a little bit elliptical because if I don't I'm never going to get through writing about this weekend. 

Of Monsters and Men is similarly emotional. Again, I lay my blanket down far to the side—all the way to the side, in this case, because the stage is packed. And that's actually a bit of a bummer, because I'm so far over that I'm actually up against a fence that borders a service road. Hence, there's the noise of golf carts motoring by a few feet away. But I've seen Of Monsters and Men before at Outside Lands, and it was a really great experience for me then, so I don't feel overly anxious about having the perfect show today.

Instead I just lay down completely, listen, and just reconnect to thoughts of my dad, which is something I don't "indulge" in all that often these days. And there were tears, but they weren't grieving tears. They were just pure neutral emotion, neither good nor bad. The sun was setting and I rolled over onto my stomach and looked out to see my first Coachella dusk. I saw the crowd silhouetted against the sun, and the ferris wheel and the balloons in the background. And it was breathtaking, and I was overcome with gratitude to have been born when and where I was, to be able to experience it.

May 21, 2013

His eyes are the first thing you notice. Bright and alert. Thinking. Mischievous and happy. A rich, syrupy brown that, when coupled with his little boy lashes, can cause mild devastation. If he knows that, though, he hides it - or at least unleashes it only in small, restrained flashes.

He's too smart for his own good. A recovering newspaper addict, overly self-educated about the ugly realities of the current world. Cynical, but not jaded. Suspicious. Opinionated. Not angry, though. Not anymore. Now he's just amused. Bemused. When politics come up, he'll go a mile a minute and be way, way down the road ahead of you before you realize what it is he's even talking about. And then he'll laugh. And it's genuine mirth, not bitterness. He's identified and parsed out The Machinations of The System, and since there's really nothing he can do about it, he just laughs.

And he's funny. He's clever and quick, and he challenges me to be clever and quick back, because getting a laugh out of him feels like an accomplishment. He'll glance at me in acknowledgment when I score one, and it makes me grin with pleasure. He used to perform comedy. He was quite successful at it.

He demurs when I compliment him. When we talked about women and sex - and women's sexuality - my jaw nearly hit the floor. I've dated some feminists, but he's on a completely different level. And it's particularly surprising and impressive considering his conservative upbringing. But when I pointed out how evolved he is, he shook his head. "No I'm not," he said. "I'm just an animal like every other man."

He's empathetic. He listens keenly, his eyes on mine as I speak. He engages and shares, and becomes self-conscious when he fears he's shared too much. He's scared of sharing too much, because he knows familiarity breeds contempt.

To that end - I don't know how old he is.

To that end - I didn't know his last name until just a few days ago.

These were two arbitrary rules we gave ourselves in a not so arbitrary game, the object of which has been to prolong the stage of mystery and intrigue, which we both know heighten the initial attraction. We're calling a spade a spade and enjoying doing so.

It's extremely casual.

He looks a bit like Jason Lee.

The chemistry is, how you say, top notch.

He's been hurt recently, and very badly. He's grieving some massive, fresh losses. But he's a happy person with a healthy sense of self-love and self-respect. He knows who he is, and he's well aware of his values and boundaries, even if his empathetic nature leads him to occasionally let them be violated.

He has, I think, a big heart.

I like walking next to him. I really, really like putting my arms around him, even though I've only done it a few times. Mystery and intrigue and casual, etc. do not mix well with prolonged hugging.

He's a self-proclaimed hick. He does yoga. He's a championship archer. He plays guitar and sings, and I was genuinely impressed when I heard his music. He loves classic rock and metal and The Beatles, and on Sunday night he gave me a crash course in Rock History that left me marveling at just how much Muse is inspired by Iron Maiden. I'd had no idea.

It started as a conversation at a restaurant, at a friend's birthday party about a month ago. The conversation lasted through two additional locations and far into the evening. I've seen him X number of times since then, where X is enough for me to determine that I enjoy his company, but not enough to say much beyond that. It's casual and fun and that's all either of us knows or cares to know.

So that is a thing that is going on with me. And this being a place where I Reveal Personal Things from time to time, consider this the latest (presumably interesting) revelation about my personal life.

Oh yeah, and I invited him to come with me to Bonnaroo.

He's thinking about it.

May 19, 2013

I'm returning from a run through Chinatown when she stops me at the corner of Broadway and Ord. She's a few inches shorter than me, with dark, plaintive eyes and a thick braid that coils past her shoulders. Her dress is gauzy and richly patterned; the folds of it twist and layer lightly around her body. Her accent is heavy and I miss some of the details, but she makes me understand the broad strokes. She needs to make a phone call; will I help her use the pay phone anchored to the deli behind us?

She holds a small scrap of lined paper in one hand and a fistful of change in the other. It's been years since I've used a public telephone, but as best I can tell, we'll only need a quarter to dial the local number written in a wide, looping script. She reads the digits to me slowly and I punch the silver buttons, handing the phone over to her once I hear ringing on the other end.

The woman lifts the reciever to her ear but keeps her eyes on me questioningly. I don't know what she's hearing on the line but I get the impression she's confused, possibly unsure of how to respond to the voicemail greeting. I watch her while she listens, realizing I have no idea how old she is. She could be twenty or she could be forty; I cannot get a handle on her age. The woman's face betrays nothing; the only clue it bears as to her identity is the bindi on her smooth forehead.

She leaves a short message, and I gather from what she says that she's speaking for a group. They're here in Los Angeles. They're in Chinatown where they were dropped off. They'll wait here to be picked back up. When she's finished, she hands the receiver back to me to hang up, shrugging. It's clear she doesn't know whether she left the message correctly, or whether it will get through to its intended recipient. She explains to me that she and her companions have just emigrated from India. That a woman from San Francisco will be picking them up, and helping them get settled in the US. That she and the others will wait at the grocery store adjacent to where we stand, until their ride arrives. She points across the street to a busy corner, but I can't make out individuals in the crowd.

I've been frowning since I heard her say San Francisco. I'm having difficulty understanding the exact details of the situation, and the idea of this woman and her family sitting at a cold bus stop in Chinatown long into the night, waiting on a driver coming from Northern California, makes me uneasy.

Not wishing to abandon her without assurance that she's made her connection, going to be safe, and not going to be waiting around in a foreign country for several hours, I offer to make the call again, but on my cell phone. She agrees. After a few rings, I reach a voicemail box. I leave as clear a message as I can, encouraging a return call if there are any questions, or if there is any information I can convey back.

The woman thanks me profusely, a smile of relief lighting up her face. Definitely closer to twenty, I think. I call her by the name she's had to repeat twice for me already, and which I'll forget within a day, and wish her well as warmly as I can. I walk away slowly, still nervous about leaving her.

I'm three blocks closer to home when my phone rings. Before answering, I duck into a store doorway to escape the noise of street traffic. With one finger plugging my ear, I say hello. It's the driver from San Francisco. She's here in LA. She's about thirty minutes away. After making sure that she knows the precise cross streets in Chinatown to go to, I thank her for returning the call and hang up. Then I turn around and jog back to Broadway and Ord, to find my new fellow American and let her know her ride is on the way.

May 21, 2013

Sunday

We're hanging out, listening to music and talking. I mention for the second (maybe third) time that I'll be watching Paul McCartney performing live in just a few weeks. I'm needling him, because he's told me before that seeing Paul McCartney in concert a few years ago was the greatest musical experience of his life. I casually, half-seriously say that he should come with me and see him again.

"I was born to go to Bonnaroo," he says. I know exactly what he means, and based on my experience of the festival - and my limited familiarity with him - I agree. He loves live music. He loves festivals, and the social scene that goes along with them. He's a bit of good old boy. He even has family in Nashville.

"So cooooome!" I plead. Now I'm being completely serious, because I'm realizing how perfect a person he'd be to go with. He'd fit right in with the laid back, down home, hick/hippie vibe of Bonnaroo. He even looks like a typical Bonnaroovian: (usually) bearded and smiley. He's easygoing and outgoing, and would be fully at home on the Manchester farm.

He looks at me and shakes his head. Not a No. More a Woman, don't tempt me. "Who are the other headliners?" he asks.

I jump off the bed and go to my desk, above which I've taped the festival lineup. I've slowly been color-coding my schedule with highlighters. Yellow for yes, definitely yes. Orange for maybe, if I can squeeze it in. Pink for probably not, but possibly. Green for meh. Blue for nope, not interested.

I read band names to him. "Mumford and Sons. Billy Idol. Tom Petty..." I look over my shoulder to see how these are hitting him. His eyes are wide.

"You forgot The Heartbreakers," he says. "You can't forget The Heartbreakers."

I continue. "Weird Al. The Lumineers. The National. ZZ Top, Pretty Lights--"

"Pretty Lights?" he interrupts. "I love Pretty Lights. And ZZ Top? Let me see this," says. He joins me at my desk and I retreat, letting him take the full lineup in. It's clear from the tone in his voice as he calls out bands that he's seeing some favorites. "Here's the thing," he sighs. "I can't go all the way to Tennesee without seeing my brother."

"So stay a few days longer and see him! The hotel's already paid for. And airfare really wasn't bad," I coax.

"Paul McCartney, Pretty Lights, you, and my brother? You don't have to sweeten the pot."

"Ok," I reply. "I'll drop it. But you are more than welcome to join me, really. It'd be a blast."

He looks at me, gauging how serious I am. "You wouldn't get sick of me?"

I shake my head. "Nope. As long as you don't mind us doing our own thing when our schedules conflict."

"I'm not clingy," he says, unnecessarily.

Monday

Hey hot stuff, are you going for all four days of the festival?

Yep. I leave here at ___ and get in at ____, return ____. ...Come 'roo with me! You would LOVE it.

Temptress! I'm thinking about it. I'd have to take a week off work so I have to figger it out. You do know that I'll have a southern accent again after approx. 8 hours in Tennesee. Just warning you.

Are you kidding? I'M COUNTING ON IT. 

Today

Are you on flight ___?

Yep.

What's your seat #?

I have to sit next to you, too?? I thought you said you weren't clingy.

It was worth a shot.

You just strike me as an armrest hog, that's all.

You are an amazing judge of character.

19B

(an hour later)

Looks like you done got you a redneck boy to take festival'n.

This is gonna be a hoot and a half. 

I'm excited to see you all sun and sweatsoaked. And Weird Al, of course. I'm very appreciative that you want me to go with you to the festival, BTW.

Are you kidding? You are literally the perfect person to go with.

I don't know anyone that would argue with you.

May 22, 2013

Oh my god. Please stop talking. Please stop trying so hard. You're making my brain bleed.

Your chaos is not sexy. Do you think you look tough? Do you think you are cool? Dangle the cigarette out a little further, please. I can't wait to watch it fall on your foot. I can't wait to watch you hop and howl, your candy shell broken momentarily.

You think you wear your attitude like an expensive accessory, but my god, what a cheap and ugly knockoff they sold you. It's embarrassing for all of us. Check the inner pocket for some self-awareness.

You're not a big fish. You probably never will be. Those aren't accomplishments; they're variations of font and color. No one is fooled, you idiot.

This is Los Angeles.

You are no one.

Strip away the decoration and your talent sums to zero. 

No one asked you. And that's what you hate the most, isn't it? Being left out.  

Stop taking yourself so goddamned seriously, please. You're not a Hunter S. Thompson character. Chill the fuck out and smile once in a while.

Or don't. Stay at the cool kids' table and cast disparaging looks around you while you write refrigerator magnet poetry. We really don't give a shit. We were fine before we knew you existed, and we'll forget you in five minutes' time. 

This is Los Angeles. 

You are no one.

June 9, 2013

Every so often I fall into a sort of in-between space. Like I'm floating on an ellipse, and I have to make the decision to throw out some kind of anchor lest I just keep floating indefinitely.

I'm on an ellipse right now. I've been busy, or distracted, or just plain absent in my own mind, where this space is concerned. But my silence isn't indicative of anything troubling. Things are good. 

My birthday last weekend was amazing. I got to see everyone I'd want to see, with some notable exceptions. I was able to round up local friends that I don't get to see together all that often anymore (everyone has moved, and drifted apart somewhat). I let myself get wasted and make a sappy speech telling them how much I love them, and how much their friendship means to me.

I pretend to be mortified immediately afterward, when I do stuff like that, but I secretly love my sappy side. 

Mason and Spyro flew in for a couple of days last weekend as well - not just to see me; other friends were here for the weekend as well, so we all hung out Friday and Saturday. Stupid, crazy fun, and a huge treat to see them together.

Cameron has been here as well, so I've spent some time with him the past couple of days. The usual combination of goofing around and heart-to-heart talks, in the usual settings. I confide in him personal things I've been holding on to. He listens, asks questions, nods and smiles, or gives me side-eye.

I leave Wednesday night for Bonnaroo (Chaucer will have an in-home sitter). And yep, I'm still going with my new friend. His brother is joining us on Friday, with a one-day pass to the fest. I'll probably sneak off at some point and let them have some time alone. 

June 12, 2013

Every time I travel, I aim to be completely finished packing and otherwise prepared a full day before I leave. This is the first time I have ever accomplished that, and holy crap was it exhausting, but holy cow am I relieved to be ready now, as opposed to the minute I walk out the door.

I have everything I need to have an amazing encore at Bonnaroo.

I have skirts and shorts, bikinis and tank tops, and comfortable, lightweight shoes with gel inserts (best $10 you can spend to prep for a festival, if you ask me). I have two pairs of sunglasses, rain ponchos, and wellies. I have bug spray and sunscreen and bandages, and a blanket to lay on. I have cozy sweats, leggings, and socks to change into at night. I have my Leica, a small flashlight, and a mobile juice pack for my phone. I have a locker reserved on site to store all this crap in when I don't need it.

I have most of my schedule down, with plenty of room for flexibility and playing it by ear.

I have someone to share this incredible experience with.

I've got everything ready for Chaucer's sitter. Chauc himself has had super long, rambling walks the past few days, with lots of play and socialization to wear him out. Today he made two new friends, including a ridiculously springy year-old female Yorkie named Mochi. They played and played off leash on the grass, Chauc bounding around, bowing and jumping like a puppy. Mochi nipped and barked at him, egging him on in the most hilarious way.

They're basically going steady now.

I've let Chauc wander and sniff to his heart's content the past week or so, on our walks. It's been really nice to take a break from Instagram and just enjoy the weather and the sunsets and the views - and him - without constantly documenting all it. At first it was a little weird, even uncomfortable, to not go for my camera every time I saw something picturesque, or every time he did something cute. Kind of shows me how addicted I am. Need to stay aware of that.

But I'm ready to join back in the fun and catch up with everyone, to see what you guys have been up to. What you've been doing and making and cooking and wearing and seeing and experiencing. It might take me a little while to get up to speed, but I'm coming!

Too pooped to write any more tonight, or to be clever or creative.

June 24, 2013

Sunday, early afternoon, still at the hotel. I'm in a state. I've barely slept the past three nights. I've taken loads of drugs. I've hardly eaten a thing in four days. I'm depleted, exhausted, starving, and dehydrated. I've sent Bryan on ahead of me since a) my stomach is threatening revolt and b) I'm feeling like I need some time alone to get emotionally centered for the day. It's the second Father's Day since my dad died. Normally I'd not let myself sink into that hole, but my body is pissed at what I've been doing to it, and has nothing extra to give me, to keep me afloat.

On the shuttle to the festival, I send text messages to all my friends who are dads. I text Bryan to remind him to call his father. He answers almost immediately. Sent him the sweetest text in history. An ugly, ungenerous part of me responds back in my head. Must be nice. At the fest, I spend the first hour struggling to dial into a happy spot. I watch The Mowgli's, the most upbeat of bands, from the back of the tent, leaning my face against the poles of a raised lounge area. I cling to the posts and mouth the words as I listen to The Great Divide and San Francisco, tracks I've been looping for weeks back at home. I can't sing, because my lips are inches from the ear of a guy reclined on a sofa in front of me. Instead I just press my forehead to the bars like a prisoner, close my eyes, and will myself to count the blessings of the moment until genuine gratitude takes hold. But my throat is tight with grief, and I miss him with an inexplicable fierceness. I wish I could tell him about it, all of it, even the drugs. He'd shake his head and chastise me, but half-heartedly. He'd get it. And he'd delight in my delight. I miss him.

Two a.m. Sunday morning. That Tent. Billy Idol has just finished playing. Most of the crowd is staying exactly where they are, holding fast to their good spots. It's been a strange Saturday evening. The cancellation of Mumford and Sons cast a bit of a pall on the festival, which, by and large, is vocal about its dissatisfaction with the replacement act of Jack Johnson. Lots of bitter, sarcastic jokes being cracked. Lots of disappointed Mumford fans. There's been a weird hole in the evening where the much-anticipated headliner should have been. People have been wandering, ambivalent about what they wanted to do or see instead. Energy has been low for a couple of hours, as clusters of bummed out fans trickle around the festival grounds in search of something to keep them going. But now the buzz and hum are starting to build again. Empire of the Sun is about to start, and the crowd is fidgety with excitement, despite the late hour, and despite the fact that they're going on nearly half an hour late.

And then they do start. And the roar of the crowd ripples out from in front of the stage, back through and over us, and electrifies several thousand people, all eager to be recharged for the late-late shift. They sound absolutely amazing live, and I'm instantly transported. Everything is blue lights, lasers, and fog. The Australian duo are outfitted in psychedelic costumes, with LED lights lining their instruments. It feels like being in a video. We've somehow, miraculously managed to carve out enough room to dance, cornered against a railing near the back of the tent. While we're not close enough to make out all of the action on stage, we've got a decent view and incredible sound, and I'm beyond thrilled to be able to move and jump like a maniac when Alive comes on. Everyone who knows the words is throwing his or her head back and belting them out. I'm turned around, facing Bryan, dancing with him, singing to him again, smiling and laughing and out of my head with joy.

It's the Saturday night hole. The empty place where Mumford and Sons should have been. We've just left The Lumineers, but we don't know what we want to do until Billy Idol, at midnight. There aren't any shows going at the moment that are particularly compelling to us. Neither of us is interested in Jack Johnson; in fact, I'm terrified that watching him will actually bring me further down and put me to sleep. We briefly consider the Ferris wheel, but the line is outrageous. Should we take a pill? he asks. I'm unsure about starting on ecstasy this early. It's only a bit after nine, and I'm planning on going all the way until morning. Pretty Lights played until sunrise the night before, so I'm guessing Empire of the Sun and Boyz Noise will go just as late. I want to time my high to maximize on those shows. We could just get high and hang out in the Christmas barn, he suggests. Fuck it, I say, realizing there's nothing else to do. But two caveats, I say. If we start now, it'll be a two pill night for me. He nods. And the other? I reach into my bag, pulling out the tiny baggy from my coin purse. I'm a handful on two pills. Like, I will need to dance. And I might disappear to go do just that, no matter what's on. 

We place the capsules on one another's tongues and toast with our water. See ya later, I say, like always.

The Christmas barn is going strong, and we hang out there for a bit, bobbing to the beat and smiling at all the weirdness of it. It's a barn, in the middle of a farm in Tennessee, in June, decked out like the North Pole, and filled with ravers. It's spectacularly bizarre.

I know the moon rocks have kicked in when I start to obsess about the Silent Disco. Jared Dietch is starting at eleven, and I want to catch as much of his set as possible before Billy Idol. I caught some of his set the night before and it was a blast. But I know that with the fest crowd largely disbanded by the cancellation, there'll probably be a line to get in to the Disco. A very, very long one that starts early. So I ask Bryan if we can go sit on the grass near it, to make sure we don't miss out. He agrees, and we step out of the Christmas chaos into the cold night.

My high ramps up noticeably as we do so.

I run to the locker to get my hoodie. I return to find the line has grown. Bryan is socializing with some other very high people. A guy and a girl, who, a moment after introducing herself to me, literally crawls off on all fours, disappearing back into the dark. She just fell into my lap, he says. We sit cross-legged. We chat. We chat faster. Moon rock. Heart thumping. My eyes are wide and I'm rocking to a beat somewhere. I run to the bathroom again. I refill our water bottles. Bryan waits for me. I'm thankful for my warm layers. Recorded music pours over us from a nearby tower. Something awful. Some awful artist. We're too far away from everything live, it's all we hear. What it is? Why aren't they changing it? We laugh. We sit closer to one another. Watch out, I say. I'm coming up. I climb onto his lap and wrap my limbs around him. Cozy. Warmth. I do not love this man. I barely know this man. But he's strong and he's kind and he's here with me, and we're having a good time. We're in a great mood now, the headliner hole forgotten. We're ready to dance. The line grows long behind us, and I feel a rush of gratitude and relief that I'm not going to miss my DJ, that Bryan has patiently waited an hour with me, in the cold grass. He holds me. I bury my face against his shoulder, his neck, this man I do not know or love.

I'm glad he's here.

In the Disco, I cut loose fast and hard. He keeps up with me for a while. We retreat to the grass behind the tent. Room for us to goof, to spread out, to sing to one another. The music is a mix, and frustrates me. Some spectacular EDM tracks, some randoms from the 90s. Bryan sits and watches me. Takes photos of me. He points at me, licks his finger, makes it sizzle on his shirtsleeve. I laugh and dance harder. The line to get in has quadrupled. They watch us enviously. I'm giddy. This is my zone. When fireworks start over my shoulder I can't even stop to watch. Alive comes on and I explode into movement and laughter. I sing the words to Bryan, ecstatic. I mean them. Loving every minute cuz you make me feel so alive, alive. And I do feel incredibly alive. I never feel more alive than when I'm dancing to music I love, and here I am, at Bonnaroo, my god, what an amazing thing, what an incredible experience, out here among the stars, thousands of joyful people around us, listening to musical thrill after musical thrill. My heart fills with affection for this person, for being here with me, witnessing and sharing in my joy. He's made it real, more real than when I do it alone, and even though I don't love him, I love him for being with me in this moment.

Friday, late afternoon. The sun is slowly dripping into the magic hour. The weather is a gift—a godsend really. Nowhere near as hot or humid as last year. There's even a light breeze valiantly working its way through an eighty thousand-strong mass of bodies, lifting skirts, hair, and spirits even higher than they already are. Bryan’s younger brother has joined us for the day, with a one-day ticket so they can rock out to Paul McCartney and ZZ Top together. They haven't seen one another in two years. Lots of laughter, smiling, teasing.

The three of us grab a patch of grass near a hip hop show. We sit only long enough to share a truly wretched soft pretzel and a handful of shrooms before we get up and wander the grounds, soaking up the chill sunset vibes of the festival. They're not attached to anything until the classic rock shows starts a few hours later, and I'm content to meander and take in the sights while the mushrooms gently, slowly curl their fingers around my senses. I let my gaze linger on things as we pass. Colorful clothes, face paint, signage, the oversized grotesque statues spiked in the ground. Everything has the potential to be a playground for my mind. I loosen my thoughts and relax my body into the drugs, letting them take me where they will.

As usual, it starts with water. Water has always been the gateway for me, with shrooms. Especially in the fading light of dusk. The twinkle and sparkle, the splatter and trickle. When water suddenly takes on an extra dimensionality, I know I'm high. The water of the Centeroo mushroom fountain captivates me as we come upon it. I jump on a bench as the guys walk ahead, snapping pics, entranced by the sound and sight of it, which blend together. Synesthesia, my favorite thing about mushrooms.

Mild giggles kick in as we walk up to This Tent, where Jim James is just starting. It's the perfect musical backdrop. A. E. I. O. U. sounds lush in my ears, drippy and loopy and sexy and silly all at once. I post to Instagram with one hand, my other arm wrapped around David as we half-dance, nodding and smiling and laughing.

Here's what I expect of watching Paul McCartney: I expect it will be a ton of fun. I expect an eighty thousand person singalong. I expect to enjoy it and appreciate it for what it is: a once in a lifetime experience. I'm a Beatles fan, but I'm certainly not a rabid one.

Well, I get the singalong, and I absolutely get the fun. We end up in a very cool little cluster of people with whom we sing, dance, and high-five throughout the show. But the whole experience is heightened by the fact that while I'm not a rabid Beatles fan, my companion, Bryan, is. And watching any show in the company of a die-hard fan is always much more fun. He knows every word to every tune, and is just generally beside himself, he's so into it. He sings the ballads in my ear and plays the guitar solos on my hip and my arm. And somewhere along the way I get hit with a wave of holy shit emotion, as in holy shit, I'm watching one of the most famous musicians in the world, a man who's not going to be up to doing these shows for too many more years. I think of all the times I've listened to The Beatles either by myself or with friends who were fans.

I think of the fact that my brother was the one who introduced me to them.

And as Sir Paul pauses in between songs to muse about "his friend John", it dawns on me what an amazing, momentous thing it is, to be living at a time when I can watch this incredibly famous and influential man perform. A man whose life and experiences and connections and friendships are so intermeshed with the 20th century historical musical narrative that it's hard to think of someone more important, or integral to, well, the whole fucking thing.

And it moves me, tremendously. And I think of friends that I love, and who I would be crushed to lose, in the way that Paul lost John. And I cry. Unexpectedly, I cry. And I'm strangely happy to be surprised by this moment.

I don't meet up with Bryan on Sunday. I don't want to. I'm burned out physically and emotionally. We talk about meeting up for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, which is the final show, but he's already buried deep in the crowd when I get to the field. I'm feeling really low at this point in the evening. So low, in fact, that I actually consider skipping the show and just going home. Everyone else just seems so connected, and I feel so incredibly alone. There's a special kind of bittersweet energy at the last show on the last night of a festival. People stand closer to one another. They're quieter. It seems like they listen to one another more, perhaps soaking up the last of their interaction with each other before saying goodbye forever. It honestly feels like 79,999 people, and then me.

And then it starts raining.

It isn't pouring, but it isn't misting either. The covered tents at the back of the field quickly fill up, as some people retreat for shelter. But most just hold their ground, some in rain gear, though most not. I'm waiting in line for the bathroom, pulling my ninety-nine cent poncho out of my bag, when the band starts to play. And I know instantly that I'm not going anywhere. The sound is so good, so rich and full and pretty, even way back where I stand, at the far end of the field. It lights up the night and grabs a hold of me and says Hey, look, don't leave yet, ok? It's Tom fucking Petty after all. You can be sad, but just be sad to Tom Petty is all's we're saying.

So I don't leave. I go to the bathroom, where I unfold and don a flimsy, transparent triangle of plastic, and then I step back out into a massive, moonlit singalong. I wander around the field for the entire show, socializing a bit, but mostly just stopping in one section long enough to listen to a song or two before moving on to another area. I watch lanterns being lit, and set out to float off into the night sky amidst cheers and applause. I watch fire breathers and glow stick dancers and hula hoopers. I spend a few minutes running in circles with a group of people who are just randomly running in circles, for the sheer fun of it, in the rain. I do all of this alone, and my heart, which has felt so empty and hollow all day, suddenly is full again. I throw my head back and yell out lyrics along with everyone else. Heyyyyyy baby, there ain't no easy way out. Heyyyyyyy I will stand my ground. And I won't back down. 

I won't say that I feel joyful, exactly. Not akin to other, higher moments of the fest. But I find peace back there, in the dark, aimlessly wandering and singing to myself, to the crowd, to the band, to the sky, to my past, to my present, and to my future. It isn't some great revelatory moment. I'm not high, and I haven't had a single drop of alcohol. It's just a clean, peaceful feeling, standing there in the rain, being alone, and being anything but at the same time

Thursday night. We've got our festival legs. It's the warm-up day. No major shows, none of the big stages are open, but there are several smaller or lesser-known acts scheduled to kick the weekend off. Last year Greg and I missed Thursday entirely, so it feels like a bonus to even be here tonight.

We drift and sample shows at will, having fun and enjoying the scene but not getting too amped up about anything. Until we stumble upon Django Django. And that's when our festival starts. I've never heard them before, and Bryan has only briefly checked them out online when making his schedule. They're indescribable. Part EDM, part funk, part question mark, and one more part question mark. I've since listened to them on Spotify and something definitely gets lost in their studio recordings. But live? Live they are unreal. So fun, so funky and danceable.

We catch the show from the outside of the tent, nowhere near close enough to see the stage, but the sound hits us—and the crowd around us—just right. We have a blast dancing with one another, laughing and goofing around to the music we can't for the life of us describe or classify, but which is rocking us hard. Some guy near where we stand shines a handheld disco laser under our feet, twisting the grip to change the pattern as we dance. I'm mesmerized and delighted. Bryan is loving the music, loving dancing, loving his first taste of Bonnaroo.

There aren't a lot of moments during the weekend, that he and I truly connect over the music we're watching. But we connect over Django Django, and it's the perfect sleeper hit start to the weekend.

I lucked out so many times throughout the festival, in terms of catching the one or two songs I'd wanted to see, at shows that I wasn't otherwise interested in. This happened with Maps and Atlases, Beach House, Wilco, ZZ Top, David Byrne, Divine Fits, and at least a couple more I'm not remembering. I just happened to be walking by, or walking up, or on my way to another show, and I caught some of my favorite randoms this way. Super lucky timing.

I missed On an On entirely, because we got to Paul McCartney so early. That's my biggest regret. I also missed The XX completely (I missed them at Coachella, too—double fail).

I wish I'd been much closer for Of Monsters and Men and The Lumineers. The Lumineers put on an awesome show, but their sound got completely lost in the back. We could barely hear them. I would have been much more bummed about it if I hadn't seen them here in LA last year, and smack up against the stage at that. And I can't really complain about the Of Monsters and Men show, since this is the third time I've seen them, and both times before were really amazing for me, emotionally.

There are a couple other smaller bands/performers I wanted to see that were earlier in the day, but I was just way too trashed from being up until 6am the night before to get back up early enough to catch them. C'est la festival vie.

EDM

Porter Robinson, Wolfgang Gartner, Boyz Noise, and Pretty Lights are all, predictably, incredible. Danced my face off, loved every minute of them.

Romance

Negative. Chemistry, yes. Lots of laughs and great conversation, definitely. Romance, no. Ellie is officially still single, kids. Hide your menfolk.

Moment of Random Dancing In the Middle of Everything

One particularly Bonnaroo-esque moment was actually on Thursday night. We took moon rocks, which neither of us had ever had before, and it hit us like a tsunami. I consider myself, for lolz or for lolsobs, to be a pretty savvy user of ecstasy/MDMA at this point. And I've never experienced anything like it. It was nearly incapacitating. We both had to sit down when it hit, lest our legs give out from under us. This happened as we were walking through the middle of the festival. We just plopped down right where we stood. That lasted about thirty seconds for me, at which point, I, of course, needed to dance. The closest music source was the crazy Christmas barn, and it was perfect. Bryan just sat watching, dazed but laughing, as I broke it down right there, in the middle of foot traffic. I didn't have a choice. Then we just sat there for a while marveling at how unbelievably high we were, and every few minutes I'd pop back up to dance some more of it off.

To me a festival isn't complete unless at some point I'm randomly dancing in the middle of nothing/everything. So I got that covered.

Favorites

Band - The Vaccines. Holy shit they rocked. Loved loved loved seeing them, especially since they were a last minute, very exciting discovery for me. I've since added lead singer Justin Hayward-Young to my rock star crush list. I mean, come on. If The Strokes + Weezer + a dash of Vampire Weekend sounds good to you, check them out. Family Friend (just the tune, no video) is fucking amazing, I cannot stop listening to that track. Also great are If You Wanna and Norgaard. Oh, and Wetsuit, which was so, so fun to hear live.

Performer - Matt Berninger of The National, who drank his way through the show like a boss, jumped into the pit inches from where I stood, and wandered around the audience for a couple of songs, dragging and violently yanking his mic cord behind him. Such a badass. I Need My Girl almost killed me. I wish it would have. Then maybe Matt would have revived me when he plunged into my personal space, which he totes did on purpose, I'm sure of it.

Song - Alive, by Empire of The Sun. So magical. I was in heaven. One of my favorite festival moments of all time, if not THE best moment, actually. Can't wait to see them again at HardFest in August.

Were There Any Groups of People Dressed In Banana Suits?

You bet your potassium there were.

vs. 2012? 

Gah, do I have to? Put a gun to my head and I'll say 2012 was better. But that's not really fair. Such wildly different experiences. Last year I went with Greg, and we were pretty head over heels, though the fact is we fought terribly when we were there. Drugs and romance, I have learned, do not mix. Like, at all. 

That being said, some of my favorite moments of this year way, way trumped some of my 2012 moments. It's just too hard to compare, really.

Gonna 'Roo Again Next Year?

Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm going to wait and see what the lineup is first this time. And I'm itching to do a new festival, if I can. Maybe Osheaga, in Montreal. Or, dream fest—the Isle of Wight. And if I don't go to EDC next year, I can pretty much never go, because it'll be my last chance to go before I'm 40. And your girl really doesn't give a whole lot of fucks about age and all that nonsenserry, because she still has a blast going to EDM shows and such...but EDC is a whole 'nother kettle of (very young) fish.

I'm also thinking of maybe just taking a trip to see one of my huge favorites somewhere cool, such as Explosions in The Sky, or The Walkmen. Making a weekend out of visiting a new city, capping it off with a concert. Dunno.

How Bad Was the Comedown After Bonnaroo?

Suicidally bad. That's not an exaggeration, I'm sorry to say. I was an absolute, utter mess. Even worse than after Coachella, which was unbearably bad. Hence my silence on the blog and IG. I was in the throes of some of the deepest despair I've ever experienced. I don't know if it was the moon rocks, or the combination of lots of moon rocks plus lots of mushrooms, or the fact that I barely ate while I was there (I lost ten pounds over the weekend), or WHAT was going on, but I crashed worse than I ever have. Disastrously bad scene. Spent most of Wednesday wanting to hurl myself off of the roof. Really. Luckily friends near and far were there for me, and I had a ton of support when I needed it most. Like, unreal amounts of love and support, which probably saved my life.

Serotonin depletion is bad news for anyone, at any time. But for someone prone to depression, it's actually incredibly fucking dangerous. I've now learned this lesson twice, the very very hard way. It's something I'm factoring into consideration for all of my subsequent festival plans, including Burning Man. That much usage spells serious trouble for me. One or two nights in a row is one thing, but four nights in a row is just not doable for the Ellster.

- - -

And that will conclude your coverage of Bonnaroo 2013, which was written by your blogmistress all at once over the past few hours and therefore on no sleep, so apologies if it's not her best work, etc and so forth, and also apologies in advance for a few more IG shots she's probably going to post because they're pretty and she wants to, even if they're totally redundant (read: sunset Ferris wheel shots) and to all a goodnight zzzzzzz....

June 26, 2013

There was a birth in my home last night. I'm proud to announce the arrival of Uber Ellie. 115lbs, 66 inches. Apgar score of 10.

Uber Ellie was conceived in a moment of deep desperation. It wasn't a pretty scene, though as far as conception goes, it was immaculate, which made the cleanup easy. Not that that matters. What does matter is that she's here now, and she's ready to kick some ass.

I'll back up.

The past couple of days haven't been among my finest. I thought I was out of the woods, and coming into a place of, if not well-being, at least relative stability. I saw some friends over the weekend, which provided a very welcome respite from the wretchedness I'd felt since getting home from Tennessee. They asked me to come to Palm Springs with them next month, an invite that shot promptly to the top of my Reasons To Stay Alive list.

Indeed, there exists such a list at the moment. It's been that bad.

So yeah, I've been struggling. I've had a hard time taking care of myself on even the most basic level. Like, eating. Or, you know, procuring things to eat. Tending to responsibilities. Returning calls, paying bills, applying water and or some kind of cleaning solvents to the growing mounds of dishes and dirty clothes overtaking my apartment. Never mind having the inclination to engage in the activities that keep me sane, like exercising, or blogging, or taking photos. Even opening Instagram to double tap the screen and let my 'net friends know I give a shit about them has been beyond me. Sorry, you guys.

I know it's bad when I reach the nadir of apathy, where the lighthearted, fun things that I normally enjoy don't even appeal to me anymore. And it's been apathy central around here.

Last night saw me curled around Chaucer, sobbing. Just wracked with sadness and fear. Just a big mess of a girl, clinging to a poor, confused, and surely helpless feeling dog. I wish dogs really did go to heaven, because this guy? This guy would have a very special spot waiting for him.

Anyway, it was bad. The dark, really low place I've been going to lately is one where I feel so utterly alone. Which, ok, sure, I am arguably kind of alone, as far as things go. No family. No husband or boyfriend. I have friends, yes. Massively blessed in that department. But I don't really have anyone that has to be there for me, no matter what. I have no designated, official source of support.

I have no emergency contact. I lie on forms that ask for one. In case of emergency, please call: Norman Baker. Relationship to patient: father. Phone number: (813) xxx-xxxx.*

*Might be a while before he picks up, though. 

I also recently realized that I am the only person I know that lives alone. That's sort of amazing to me. I mean, every single one of my friends is either married, lives with his/her partner or family members, or has a roommate. Even the guys I've dated over the past year or so - every last one of them has a roommate. Someone to at least be there, should they, you know, have the overwhelming urge to throw themselves off the roof of their building.

Not I. Forget having someone to help take over the daily crap of life while I get back on my feet emotionally. Someone to pick me up a sandwich when I realize at midnight that I've yet to eat anything all day. And forget having someone to keep me company when I slip into a black hole of loneliness. I don't even have someone to block my path should I decide to walk to the elevator, hit PH, and climb, dead as a zombie, the two flights of stairs between me and The End.

Like I say, it's been bad.

So there I was last night, feeling myself break into a million little pieces, wishing for the hundredth time that I had someone to look out for me for a little while, until I can look after myself again. And yes, I know the obvious answer to all of this is, Hey dipshit, look after yourself. Be your own caretaker. That's what adulthood is.

Well, I'm working on it. My friends and advocates would step in here and say something like, Yo girl, chillax. You are taking care of yourself. You're alive, aren't you? You're doing ok. Only they don't really know how remarkable it is that I am alive. Well, some of them do. And those that do are being pretty fucking amazing, in terms of support. But they're not in my building. They're not in my city. They're not even in my state. My innermost circle has a pretty vast diameter, unfortunately. I still feel all the love, but it's at a geographical remove. And that isn't always easy. And while I know it's my job and mine alone to take care of me, a near-lifetime of dependency in one form or another is a tough fucking habit to break, no matter what wrenches life throws at you.

Anyway, last night it just got to be too much. I couldn't bear it anymore, the not having anyone to just, like, stroke my hair while I cried. (It probably didn't help that I've been playing Family Friend by The Vaccines nonstop. "If you need a bit of love, put your head on my shoulder, it's cool." Yeah.) So I said Fuck this shit. And I decided that since there wasn't anyone, I'd make someone up.

And that's when Uber Ellie was born.

Uber Ellie looks exactly like Ellie. They're indistinguishable, in fact, except for the expression on Uber Ellie's face. The determined set of her jaw. You can tell just from looking her that she's a fucking badass.

Uber Ellie's job, first and foremost, is to keep Ellie safe. To keep her alive. She's a bodyguard and a guardian angel combined. She doesn't let anyone or any thing harmful anywhere near Ellie, and that includes impulses towards self-harm. Uber Ellie checks that shit hard when she sees it coming. But more than being a source of protection, she's a source of comfort. She steps in when Ellie's shittastic self-soothing skills fail to do the job. She lays with Ellie and holds her tight when she cries. She strokes her hair. She shushes her and whispers the special, loving things in Ellie's ear that her mother used to. Even better things, in fact.

I realize this all sounds really fucking weird and very, very sad. What can I say? Necessity is the mother of invention. And in this case, a bit of mild schizophrenia is what was necessary. Because I want to go to Palm Springs next month.

Uber Ellie lets Ellie be sad and scared for as long as she needs to. Uber Ellie doesn't tell Ellie to "buck up", or that her horrible feelings are a choice. She doesn't brightside Ellie. She just lets Ellie climb under the covers and hide from the world. And in the meantime, she takes care of Ellie's shit.

Uber Ellie floats up and away from Ellie like a shade, like a facsimile. But she's real as fuck and she gets things done. She makes the calls Ellie doesn't want to make, because she isn't afraid of what she's going to hear on the other end of the line. Uber Ellie is absolutely fearless. Ellie is a thinker, but Uber Ellie is a doer. While Ellie lays in bed wondering, being anxious and unsure about her future, Uber Ellie is busy smashing the obstacles to Ellie's happiness and well-being.

There is nothing Uber Ellie can't do.

(I sort of went all out, when I made her. Shoot for the moon, etc.)

Uber Ellie doesn't give a fuck about men. While Ellie moons about, second-guessing herself, engaging in texting Tomfuckery and other ridiculous shit, guys are the absolute last thing on Uber Ellie's list of priorities. Way down past, like, keeping Chaucer's nails trimmed and, say, alphabetizing the spice rack. She's just got too much other stuff going on.

Uber Ellie is stoic. She takes things one at a time, and doesn't waste time worrying about just how many things there are. She is a girl of action, not words.

Ellie, in the meantime, gets a break. She gets taken care of for a while, until she can take care of herself again. When you talk to her, it's really her - not Uber Ellie. Uber Ellie doesn't socialize. She doesn't have time to. Ellie is still in charge of her friendships. She still handles all the fun stuff. She's still the creator, the writer, the friend, the dog mom.

But if Ellie needs her to, if things get too hot in her relationships and she needs back up, Uber Ellie will step in and handle that shit, too. Uber Ellie will not let anyone hurt Ellie.

And here's the best part: Uber Ellie will never leave Ellie. She'll never die. She'll never divorce her. She'll never move away. She'll be there in one form or another for the rest of Ellie's life, providing as much or as little presence as she needs. She's going to teach Ellie all of her tricks, too, and slowly impart to her the fearlessness and no-bullshit competency that she so sorely lacks. But she knows it's going to take time, and she has patience. Eventually, though, yes, Ellie will be the one in charge. Uber Ellie will fade into the background and wait to be summoned, as needed.

She hopes it's sooner than later that Ellie can take over. But for right now, Uber Ellie is here, and she's in charge, motherfuckers.

Hell, she doesn't even have time for umlauts.

June 30, 2013

What I've come to realize is that apathy is strangely empowering, if I look at it the right way.

Apathy is what exists at the very bottom of the hill. It's the thing I bump into when I go rolling down, down, and down some more. Hitting it doesn't provide any bounce to send me back up - but it doesn't give way, either. There's nothing past it. I can sit there with my back against it and know, if nothing else, that I'm not going down any further.

Apathy is the big, fat cipher I find in the bucket, when I make a last, feeble attempt to pull something up from the well. Even something useless, like anger or fear. But the well is dry and the bucket is glaringly empty. There isn't even any surprise in that moment. The well, the bucket, and I all knew this was coming.

But that's the point at which apathy becomes potentially empowering. Because from that point on, any tiny drop I find in the bucket, should optimism or curiosity or just plain boredom send me back to the well - just to see, just for the hell of it - is a bonus. Oh, ok. Well then. Wasn't expecting this. Guess I'll go ahead and drink it. Yeah. Just a drop, but I wasn't expecting that. Sort of really nice, that was. Kind of incredibly grateful for it. Oops, I'm smiling. And now I'm laughing. 

I'm so very glad no one is witnessing this. I look like a maniac.

Maybe there'll be another drop tomorrow.

July 4, 2013

I wake up well past twilight, my forehead pounding. I have a couple of missed texts and a missed voicemail. Invitations from friends to hang out that evening. One is from a girlfriend who lives in West Hollywood.

Ellie! I'm heading out with Dean to Pink Taco on Sunset around 8. Come!! I haven't seen you!! 

I take inventory of my body. Headache. Stuffy nose. Dry throat. Stomach still stuffed from the two slices of pizza I scarfed down that afternoon before dozing off. Definitely an empire waist kind of night if I do go out, which I know I probably shouldn't, but I really want to see my friends. It's one thing to stay in when there's nothing going on, but I hate the feeling of missing out. 

I listen to the voicemail. Lorena reiterating her invitation, making sure I get the details in case I want to join them. I glance at the clock before calling her back. She tells me the plan: swing by Pink Taco for a drink and to say hi to some friends of Dean’s, then Bagatelle, then some club in Beverly Hills. Dean has the hookup and we won't have to wait in line or pay a cover. Also—and this is pitched as selling point—the club is straight. I laugh and tell her I'm in, but that they should go on ahead of me. I'll get ready, take the train to Hollywood, then cab it the rest of the way and be there as soon as I can. 

It's been gorgeous out at night, and I'd love to wear something tight and black, but my pizza lunch has ruled that out. I guzzle water while I'm getting ready, telling myself futilely that I shouldn't drink tonight. Knowing that I will anyway. I pull on a sundress with a forgiving waistline. It's cute, but not the right look for where I'm headed. I stare at my dress rack for half a minute, trying to envision what I can get away with comfortably, then decide not to worry about it. I need to hurry anyway.

The subway feels like a swamp, and I'm grateful not to have had to dress more warmly. While I'm waiting at Wilshire/Vermont to switch lines, I text another friend to let him know I slept through his invitation, but would love to make plans for another night. A man on the bench besides me asks if I'm getting cell reception. I nod and point above us.

"I think we're right below the entrance," I say. He offers me his seat, and his friends groan, pretending to object to having to move. I laugh and tell them to stay put, that I'm fine. They ask where I'm headed. I cautiously say West Hollywood, not sure how deep into this conversation I want to go. But they're very chill and friendly, just being generally chatty. They're on their way home from watching jazz and drinking wine at LACMA. 

One of them sits beside me on the train, and we make small talk for another two stops. Have I been to the jazz nights at the museum? No, I have not. Sounds fun though. It is, I am assured. I'll have to check it out sometime, I say. How about next weekend, he smiles. I smile back. No, thanks. Can't make it then. He's unoffended and impassive, and wishes me a goodnight as he and his friends disembark.

The tourist throng at Hollywood and Highland isn't too thick, and I get a cab with ease. It's a van, and I have trouble shutting the heavy door behind me as I climb in. The driver—a hulking, smiling Eastern European—realizes as we're stopped in traffic a minute later that I haven't closed it properly. He reaches back with one arm and pulls it tight.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," I say.

Without turning around, he points at his cheek. "One kiss," he teases. I laugh and my phone lights up. Lorena telling me they've made a first stop at Saddle Ranch, and to let her know when I'm close so they can walk over to meet me. Don't get whiplash riding the bull, I say.

Distracted by the scenes of Hollywood street life on a Friday night, I don't pay attention to where we are, and before I know it, we've arrived. I send a quick text before pulling cash out of my wristlet. Oops, I'm here. She fires back: We're walking down now. 

Getting out of the van with anything remotely resembling grace proves beyond me. Our proximity to the curb combined with my ridiculous clog heels spell disaster, and I nearly break my neck in front of an amused patio full of diners. I scuttle to a corner out of view and text L. I just made a scene trying to get out of the cab. Totally mortified. We have to go somewhere else now, sorry. 

The two of them walk up a minute later, bubbling over with Friday night energy and smiles. Hugs are exchanged and we go inside, where Dean greets a large table of friends of his. Lorena and I hang back, use the restroom, get a drink. We only stay long enough for Dean to have made an appearance at his friend's birthday, then we take a taxi to Bagatelle.

We spend the next hour drinking champagne, sharing appetizers, and taking turns updating one another on the men in our lives. Dean makes us groan with jealousy when he shows us pics of the model he's seeing. Lorena and I have had very similar romantic lives for the past few years. She and I are the same age, yet we both tend to date younger guys. For her, this is a deliberate choice. She likes how playful, affectionate, and attentive they are. For me, it's accidental. At least, as best I can tell. But I definitely agree with her on the benefits.

Sufficiently liquored up, we join some coworkers of Dean’s who are heading to the aforementioned club in Beverly Hills. The three of us ride in the backseat of a spotless black X5, joking and singing along with the music. My headache, I realize, has been temporarily bullied out of existence by the champagne.

We valet the car in front of a smallish club entrance with a massive line of anxious looking, stunningly beautiful people. I'm too tipsy to pay attention to exactly where I am, to glance up or down the street for landmarks—not to mention note the name of the club we're entering—but the immaculate state of the sidewalk registers with me. Yep. Beverly Hills.

Since we've tagged along with a friend of a friend of the promoter (or something along those lines), we are escorted through and past the waiting crowd, to present ourselves to an attractive middle-aged woman in a skintight cocktail dress. She verifies who we're with, then deftly outfits us in wristbands before unhooking the velvet rope to let us pass. I don't make eye contact with anyone waiting in line as all of this happens, but I make a point to politely thank the door staff who usher us inside.

The club is small and very dark. A tiny bar, smallish dance floor, and a raised seating area with about ten sofa groupings for bottle service. There aren't many people here yet.  The three of us fix ourselves drinks at the table the friend-of-a-friend has, and look around. I stash my wristlet and phone under the table, and we take our drinks to the near-empty dance floor. The DJ is jump-cutting crowd favorites from the eighties onward, and we sing to one another as we goof around, still plenty of space between us. Two minutes have barely passed before someone bumps into me, spilling vodka and Red Bull down the bottom half of my dress and my legs. I'm unbothered by the accident—in fact the splash of cold actually feels good in the stuffy nightclub—but we're forced to move to a dryer patch of floor lest we slip.

It fills up fast, and with people that are even more beautiful than I remember them being outside. The three of us have a grand time nudging each other, pointing, giggling, and speculating. Is he looking at you or me? Another drink and another half an hour later, we're ready to mingle.

It's actually a fun little club to be at; it's small enough to not get separated from your friends for too long, but it's filled way past capacity, stuffing patrons into a space that's obscenely undersized for the crowd, and therefore allowing for (forcing, really) plenty of opportunities to socialize with the people you've bumped up against. The three of us are having lots of laughs and enjoying ourselves immensely, and I get pretty brave in my flirtation. Lorena and I have only hung out a few times, and we're still getting to know one another—including figuring out one another's "type", for wingman purposes. She nods towards a tall, polished-looking guy in a white button down who's dancing near us.

"What about him?" she asks me. I check him out. Kind of smirky looking. Smug, really. But he has an interesting face, and I put him closer to my age than most of the crowd.

The man notices us noticing him, and before I know what's happening, he's navigated the two or three steps between us and is dancing with me. In the space of five minutes, I learn his name (Alexis), his occupation (investment banker), and the depth of his arrogance (vast). I almost immediately forget the sarcastic crack he makes about barely being able to afford going out in LA, but it's enough to give him my best really?? glare before mumbling something about needing to find my friends and moving off. But as I do, he says something I don't quite catch. I lean towards his ear to ask him to repeat himself, and he suddenly turns his face to kiss my cheek, though it feels rather like he was aiming for my lips.

"Whoa!" I say, pulling back and putting both my hands up in front of me. If Alexis even recognizes my indignation, his face betrays no embarrassment or regret. He just disappears back into the crowd, as randomly as he'd appeared.

The night goes on.

Emboldened by the drinks and unfazed by Alexis, I press on, making a game of singling out for conversation any of the men the three of us find cute, just for fun. They're all twenty-something. They're all gorgeous. And for the most part, they're very friendly. We take turns being wingman and recruiting for one another, but nothing really sticks.

I have another mildly shocking interaction with a guy who I notice, and who notices me back. Blondish, chiseled, built but very pretty. A poor woman's Tom Hardy. We throw looks at one another for a few minutes before he maneuvers himself next to me. He's about to speak when suddenly a dazzling platinum blonde appears, wrapping herself around him like a blanket. He kisses her. I turn my back.

A moment later the girl moves away from him. As she does, the man extends his arm just enough to touch my waist and back with a deliberate, slow stroke. I jerk my head around to look at him, and his expression is clear. No, he hasn't mistaken me for his companion. He knows he's touching me. My jaw falls open and I laugh out loud. Unbelievable. I'm too drunk, too surprised, and too amused to react in any way other than to return to my friends.

I see him once before we speak. He's stepping past Lorena and I, his body and face mostly angled away from us as he squeezes past, trying to get out of the seating area. Thick, wavy, sandy blonde hair that he's bound up in ponytail at the base of his neck. I can't tell how long it is exactly, but I suspect chin length. Smooth, slightly tan skin with an even tone and pinkish cheeks. The kind of skin that betrays an excellent diet and more daily water consumption than I manage in a week. Pale eyes, though at first I can't tell what color. He isn't smiling, so I won't see the diastema until we're in conversation a little while later. But I do see his very full lips. About six foot, maybe a bit less. A healthy but not ridiculously-so build. There's definitely cardio in his regime. He's wearing a chambray shirt underneath a kelly green blazer, and black jeans. I put him at twenty-five. He is, in my opinion, easily the best looking man I've seen tonight. A true California beach boy. Probably a surfer.

I point him out to Lorena as he passes and she gives me a look that says, Yep. Definitely nice. Also definitely young, girlfriend. She's right, I know. Out of my league looks-wise and way too young. I inwardly sigh and think not for the first time how much aging sucks.

A few minutes later I head to bathroom. I'm not really paying attention to where I'm stepping, other than to avoid the toes of the patrons I'm walking with, so I'm surprised when I feel my foot connect with something solid, send it flying across the hallway, and into the wall next to a photo booth. I realize I've just kicked a glass, full force. I look around guiltily, trying to figure out whose glass I've just punted, and I find myself face to face with Probable Surfer.

He smiles widely in sympathy. Diastema. He looks like Heath Ledger, but prettier. Less angular, less gaunt in the face, which glows with...something.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I think I kicked it before, too."

"You can't take me anywhere," I reply. He laughs and we just sort of look at one another for a moment, assessing. Are we going to keep this going? Do we want to? I want to. Do you want to?

Apparently he wants to, because he makes a subtle join me gesture with his arm as he moves out of the flow of foot traffic, to the only space where we can stand that isn't in the way: next to the obnoxiously glowing photo booth, which is pouring hallogen light on my face at one a.m. I am not happy about this.

I also have a thought as it happens: This is what they mean by "falling" into conversation. 

Over the course of the next several minutes, I gather the following bits of information: he was born and raised in ____. He went to {Ivy League University} for undergrad. He just graduated from ____ law school. We've been to some of the same music festivals, the same years, where we could conceivably have seen one another. He wishes he were going to Burning Man like me. He likes my dress. He really likes floral prints, in fact (I greet this statement with a skeptical smile, as I suspect he's teasing me. No really. I have two floral print sofas at home.) His name is Matthew. He smiles a lot.

Enough time has passed that now I really have to use the restroom, and I say as much.

"So what," he says playfully. "You're walking out of my life, just like that?" Walking out of his life is the very last thing I want to do, but I refuse to ask him to wait for me where he's standing.

"I'll meet you back inside," I say with much more nonchalance than I feel. I'm only 80% sure I'll be able to find him again—it's a tiny place but the crowd is thick—but it's the only option.

"Okay," he says. "You better. Same team, right?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness.

"Same team," I nod. He nods too, and then we turn away from one another.

While I'm waiting in the line for the bathroom, I chat up two tipsy girls behind me. They compliment my dress, which, if nothing else, is inarguably unique in the mix of sleek, fashion-forward outfits everyone else is sporting.

"I look like I just came from church," I reply. One of the girls shakes her head vehemently.

"Do you have a ponytail holder?" she asks me.

"I wish," I reply. She bites her lip thoughtfully, looking me over.

"A ponytail and some eyeliner. That's all you need," she declares. I smile, not offended at all. She's exactly right.

"Next time," I assure her, feeling as if I've just promised my daughter to make a bigger effort towards looking cool at her soccer games.

It takes a few minutes to find him again, but serendipitously, his table is just a few feet away from ours. The next half hour: dancing, drinking, talking, joking. I introduce him to my friends. I try not to stare at him. He slowly ups the physical ante, and eventually, his arm is wrapped around my waist. I am okay with this. There is no arrogance in the gesture or, it seems, in him at all. In fact, I'm beginning to get the impression he's pretty crunchy. I squint at his ponytail. How long? I ask. He responds by reaching back and pulling the band from his hair. I notice it's the same "ouchless" kind I use. I watch as he finger combs his hair down to show me. Yep. Chin length. Golden and wavy and soft-looking. Devastating. I want to run my hand up the back of his head and gather it into my fist. Instead I just smile.

I allow myself one more moony question. "Twenty five?" I say, cocking my head as if studying him. He snorts, throwing me off. "Hmm, really? Twentyyyyyyy-seven?" I say, hoping I don't sound hopeful.

"Twenty-eight," he says, and that line of discussion stops there. He doesn't reciprocate the inquiry.

The club lights come on. Lots of lights, in fact, which seem unnecessarily bright. I catch my reflection in the mirror beside us. I am, undeniably, a hot mess. I've had a sinus infection for a good week, and have been losing sleep steadily because of it. I haven't touched up my lipgloss in hours. I cringe, taking myself in, and think wryly of the expression we used in my dancing days: ugly lights. Strip club owners, it seems, take malicious glee in flipping the light switch the second the clock strikes 2:00 a.m., leaving the girls to scramble to collect payment from their customers and scurry back to the dressing room, lest the brutally unflattering light turn them into pumpkins in the eyes of those men.

Knowing that these ugly lights aren't doing me any favors, I brace myself for a blowoff. But it doesn't come. In fact, the opposite: do I want to come to after hours with him and his friends? I consider. I know my friends are going to be heading home anyway. But if I leave with Matthew, it'll most likely mean spending the night with him. It doesn't necessarily have to, of course—but I don't predict asking him to drive me back downtown at three, four in the morning.

But I'm enjoying him. I can't say that it's any kind of off-the-charts connection, but he is so, so very nice to look at. My ego is tugging on my sleeve. Do it. Come onnnnn, please? You never go to straight bars! You never meet straight guys! What's the harm? Please? For me? LOOK AT HIM.

He turns to face me directly, and his eyes search mine. "What do you say? Same team?" It's that moment—the one where two near-strangers have an unspoken, closing-time exchange. I'd like to hook up with you. Would you like to hook up with me? Where the terms of the hookup are undefined, precisely, but not by a whole lot.

"Same team," I reply, and he accepts this answer with what I decide is an appreciative smile.

I say goodbye to my friends, and we head out into the warm night.

- - -

Once outside, we spend several minutes confusedly trying to coordinate plans with his friends, all of whom have scattered into smaller groups and couples, and none of whom seem to know where any of the others are going. Some are trying to flag taxis, which are in high demand. Some are waiting for the valet to retrieve their cars. Let's go to McNare's, someone says. Hearing his name, McNare joins the conversation. No, not my place. I don't have any liquor. Frowns. Shrugs. I get the feeling Matthew's friends are gamely trying to accommodate his desire to keep the evening going for our sake. I also get the feeling that what they really want to do is go home.

We walk up and down the sidewalk, milling with faces familiar from the past few hours, trying to put together some kind of plan with a quickly vaporizing group of people. One of the men I'd spoken to earlier, Alexis, is standing on the curb with a pair of his friends, waiting for his car. I can sense him staring at me as we walk past, Matthew leading me by the hand. I don't look up.

After a few more moments of chaos, he finally stops and turns to me. "Okay, look. Do you want to just go to my place, maybe open a bottle of wine and talk or something? I can take you home whenever you'd like." The trepidation in his face makes me laugh.

"That sounds great," I say.

A moment later, we find ourselves in the backseat of a cab. He's incredibly polite to the driver, apologizing profusely when there's confusion about the address of his condo, which is just a few blocks away. As soon as that's settled, Matthew leans close to me. He puts both of his hands on my legs, just under the hem of my dress, and squeezes, hard. Too hard.

Ow. It takes a second for me to register why I'm in pain: fingernails.

I don't really have time to adequately process this fact, however, because now I'm being kissed. His kiss isn't particularly aggressive or forceful—certainly nothing to match the attack on my thighs—but it isn't exactly skilled, either. The word for it, really, is immature.

I have the first stirrings of a thought, floating to me from a familiar place: This is why we decided to stop dating so much younger, remember Ellie? It's been our experience, says my brain dryly, that the under thirty-five set has some learnin' to do in this arena, yes yes? 

Chastising myself for not feeling more gratitude for the gift sitting beside me, chatting me up about law school and writing and the Los Angeles light rail system and how nice my "energy" is, I try to get my head in the game. But I can already tell that even if I bully my brain into submission, my body wants nothing to do with this scene. My body, in fact, is making some brutal calculations and comparisons.

We head down one winding street, then up another, onto what appears to be a private drive. Seconds later we're parked on a semi-circular drop off in front of his building. Plate glass windows frame a small, minimalist lobby, manned by a single, suited employee, who opens the taxi door, greets Matthew by name, and hands him a bundle of pressed white shirts shrouded in cellophane.

“Thanks, Doc," he says jovially, taking his dry cleaning and stepping to the elevator, me quietly in tow. Doc reaches in, hits 17, and nods goodnight to both of us. I haven't said a word since we exited the cab, though once the elevator doors close, I ask if the doorman's name is really Doc.

Matthew shakes his head no. "Long story," he smiles.

The lobby, Doc, and the sheer proprietorial air with which Matthew entered the building have all prepared me, so I'm not surprised when we exit the elevator into a lush hallway lined with tasteful carpet, textured jacquard wallpaper, and glinting, mirror-finished tables. Still, I'm not expecting what comes next.

He slips his key into the lock of a door a few paces away from the elevator. After you, he gestures. The first, slightly echoing footfalls of my heels on the hardwood floor give it away: his place is large. Exactly how large I won't realize until a few minutes later, but just walking into the kitchen, which opens to a grand living room, connected to a full dining area, which is lined by an entire wall of floor-to-celing windows, is enough for me to realize that, three years into my residence here, I'm about to have my first glimpse of Serious LA Money.

I do my best to take it in stride. I don't stare in the way I would have, had I been even five years younger. But details are popping out at me left and right, and I'm frantically cataloguing them for my memory. Oh yes. This will be blogged. 

His home is astonishingly beautiful, in the way that would make me sigh with envy and delight, had I seen it in a magazine, or on a Pinterest board. Immaculate. Stylish. Youthful. Stunningly decorated and accessorized. Every last inch of it has had, if not love, plenty of consideration poured into it—and plenty of cash. I'm already strategizing how I can sneak a few photos for my friends. I note random things. The wall-mounted rack of radiant copper cookware. The kitchen cabinetry, which is white, but manages to be everything unexpected about white kitchen cabinetry. It's fresh and pretty, the cut and hardware like something out of Restoration Hardware, but still somehow nontraditional. A crystal chandelier above the dining table, the prisms of which bear not a speck of dust.

Crown moulding lines the entire apartment, which has several built-ins filled with books and framed photos. Walls of a pale blue the exact shade I can't make out in the dimmish light. Two giant midnight blue velvet chesterfield sofas face one another across a flat file that I suspect was commissioned. And the piece de resistance: a giant glass-framed vintage American flag, spanning an entire wall. It's easily fifteen feet wide and ten feet high. I step over to examine it, marveling at both the flag itself and the frame, which is a solid, chocolatey wood, a good six inches thick. I cannot fathom how something like this could be framed, much less transported up to the 17th floor and through a standard doorway. I want to ask how old the flag is, but I'm afraid the question's subtext (how much it cost), will be too obvious. Instead I point at the velvet chesterfields.

"Those aren't floral," I say.

"Those ones are in my room. I'll show you in sec. Come here, help me pick out music."

Matthew rounds the corner of the living room into the adjacent room. I follow, and find myself walking into a space about the size of my apartment, divided clearly into office/workspace, and den/library. I bite my lip lest I laugh. I'm standing in a residential library. An honest to goodness home library. I pivot on my heels and take it in, less concerned with reading the titles on the shelves than getting a good impression of the whole room, before we open the wine and my short term memory gets drowned. I suppress a hilarious urge to twirl in my dress and sing Little Town.

Meanwhile, my host is leaning over his desk, clicking through his music library. When I join him, he sinks into a leather office chair, spreading his knees to invite me between them. "Your home is beautiful," I say softly, telling myself to leave it at that. He knows, after all. But he smiles in acceptance of the compliment.

"I did it myself. Gutted the place. Picked out everything, all the furniture, the fixtures, the art. The floor was parquet. It was a disaster. Do you like art?"

"I do, but I'm not all that educated about it, I'm afraid." I watch him select a playlist, his face bathed in light from a desktop monitor roughly the size of my desk. "How long have you lived here?"

"Three years." He rises and takes my hand, leading me out of the room through a different entrance. I realize the apartment is even bigger than I'd thought. "Do you want anything?"

I ignore him momentarily, thrown off by my realization that we're now walking through an entirely separate wing. Before I can stop myself, I ask how many square feet the place is, my voice almost accusatory in tone. I can't help it. It's one of the biggest apartments I've ever set foot in.

"Little over thirty-five hundred," he says lightly. There's no arrogance, no boastfulness. He's matter-of-fact about it. Matthew walks back down a hallway lined with built-in shelves towards the kitchen. I trail him like a puppy, glancing as I pass them at the dozens of framed photos that line the walls. Many are black and white. In the kitchen, we contemplate the contents of his fridge. "Do you want wine?" he asks.

"Not really," I say truthfully. He pulls out a large blue glass bottle of water and walks backwards out of the kitchen, grinning and pulling me to him for a kiss. He dips his head slightly to kiss my chin, which he then bites. Hard. And it hurts. And not in a good way. I wince and pull away and laugh a laugh that I hope communicates Slow down. I'm starting to second guess my decision to come. It's the second time I've been in actual pain since he laid hands on me.

As we're making our way through the room I suddenly realize there's a massive sliding glass door next to the dining room table. "May I?" I ask, letting myself out onto a balcony with a small contained garden and a few teak lounge chairs. Matthew is saying something about the food he's trying to grow but I'm not paying attention. Instead I'm staring out across the glittering city lights, at the cluster of high rises in the distance that denote my own neighborhood. I sigh. I feel arms wrap around me, again, too tight, too rough, and I realize that if I'm going to leave, I need to do it now.

"You look amazing in this dress," he says, the fabric pulling under his weird, pinching grip. "Oh yeah, let me show you those sofas," I'm taken by the hand and led back through the photo gallery hallway, where he stops and pulls a frame off a shelf. Black and white. A football team. {Ivy League University} football team. He isn't bragging. He's only showing me because when he'd earlier mentioned having played, I'd been skeptical, due to his lithe frame. "See? Thirty pounds heavier."

I skim the picture politely but my eyes flit almost immediately to another on the bookcase before us. A family photo, which, when Matthew follows my gaze, he lifts down wordlessly to let me examine close up. Later I'll tell Mason about it. You should have seen these people, I'll say. They all looked like senators.  

LOL, he'll reply. My family photos everyone looks like bank robbers.

I hear myself saying something inane about the photo but now it's my companion's turn to ignore me, because he's busy pulling me down the hall, toward his bedroom and the two floral sofas that constituted our initial talking point about an hour ago.

- - -

Sure enough, there are two floral love seats in the sitting area of his bedroom. They face one another across a coffee table littered with cards and crumpled wrapping paper. Two foil balloons on their last breath of helium hover just above the table.

"Birthday?" I ask.

"Graduation. Did I tell you that? I thought I told you that." He did. I'd forgotten in the space of an hour. He walks to the further sofa and stands behind it, running his hand across the back to showcase the print: cabbage roses the size of his palm, strewn across an optic white background. Designed by a friend of his, using vintage fabric from the UK. “She's amazing, so talented. They're one-of-a-kind. Cool, right?” I suspect that the friend he's describing is a current or former lover. There seems to be no other excuse for these couches, which sit there embarrassedly, like a pair of lace hankies left in the men's locker room.

I turn to take in the rest of the room, but when I sense Matthew approaching me, I bound across the bed, pretending to inspect the stack of books on the opposite nightstand. The top one is a collection of Matisse prints. I touch it absently, as if admiring the texture of the jacket's paper.

"That's nice," I say, pointing towards a painting on the wall. I'm kneeling on his bed, turned completely away from him, still in my heels. "Who did that?" I'm given a short speech about the artist, a local woman who's "about to blow up", according to my host, who has now rounded the bed to stand in front of me. He tries to push me backwards, but the position I'm in prevents this from working very well, and instead I just sort of tip over awkwardly onto my side, in the way Chaucer does when he finishes a particularly arduous side scratch.

"Hang on," I say, aware that a passive-aggressive primness has crept into my voice. I take my time pulling the jewelry from my fingers and wrist before setting it delicately on top of the Matisse book. "Don't let me forget those." Rolling over to sit back up on the edge of the bed, I reach down to unbuckle my shoe straps. I hear myself sigh with genuine difficulty at the maneuver and wonder what interest this paragon of youth and beauty could possibly have in me, and how many minutes I have before he sobers up and I see the desire evaporate from his perfect face.

As if to answer my question, Mathew, still standing beside the bed, pulls off his shirt. He has the sort of physique that comes from natural athleticism vs. long hours logged in the weight room. Proportionate and muscled, but not unnaturally defined or bulky. I can see the yoga; the football is long gone. It's a delightful sight that I can certainly appreciate, though that's about the extent of my response, mental or physical.

Five minutes of disastrously bad making out ensue, during which I alternately deflect, unsuccessfully attempt to redirect, and just plain suffer through more of the weird chin biting, some alarmingly rough handling, and general ineptitude of touch. When I can't stand it any more, I launch myself out of the bed, claiming a need to use the bathroom. I pad back down the main hallway in the dark, unsure of where I'm going. I sense more than I see an open doorway beside me, reach in to fumble for the light switch, and stand gaping at a room that I instantly decide I could happily reside in.

The master bathroom is about a third the size of my loft, with a toilet room, a walk-in shower, and a massive, gleaming, stand alone bathtub at which I stare for a good minute. Nearly as long as my sofa, the smooth white lip of it reaches to my mid-thigh. An impressive network of chrome hoses and four-pronged faucet nobs anchored to the wall beside it promise unfailing efficiency. And the sheer, egregious size of the thing promises relaxation on a level I don't reach unless Vicodin is involved. It looks brand new, but I know it's not. I know the housekeepers just want me to think it is.

"That tub," I say, walking back into the dark bedroom.

"Yeah, you like it? You want to take a bath?" Before I can answer, he springs from the bed, injected with purpose and, I suspect, hope for amplified interest from me. "Let's take a bath!" Despite my better instincts, I follow him wordlessly back down the hall and into the bathroom.

I watch as Mathew expertly wrenches faucet dials left and right, calibrating the temperature with his bare feet as water pools quickly around them. I shed the last of my clothes, silently cursing my cheap underwear, and climb in beside him, feeling childlike in the oversized tub. He uncaps a bottle sitting on the ledge beside the tub and tips it carefully into the stream of water. Creamy white suds form around my ankles, and an unmistakable scent fills the room.

"Lavender," I say.

"Lavender," he echoes. "Lots of lavender. Be right back." Mathew steps nimbly onto a crisp white bathmat and then disappears back down the hall. I sit down in the bubble-filled water and look at my surroundings. A shelf behind me is lined with various bath and grooming products, mostly Kiehl's. There are fluffy white towels stacked on a built in shelf below twin sinks. I can't tell if the walls are painted the same icy blue as some of the other rooms, or if they're greener. A small silver square has been pressed into the edge of the tub's enamel: the manufacturer's seal. I run my fingertip across the single, cursive script "m".

When Mathew returns, he hands me a highball filled with some pungent, amber liquid and lights a candle on the vanity. I sniff the glass, but cannot determine the contents. I set it on the ledge behind me and watch the man I've known less than two hours join me, naked, in his tub.

Several minutes of tragically comic fumbling follow.

At some point we move to the shower, which is large enough for me to lay completely flat in, with my arms extended straight above my head. But the change of location doesn't improve things, and after what feels like a polite amount of time has passed, I announce that I need to go home. When Mathew expresses surprise and disappointment, I am genuinely befuddled. Our complete lack of chemistry and physical incompatibility could not be more glaring. But his objections seem sincere, and I reject offers of breakfast in bed and an early morning ride home as kindly as I can. "I'm sorry. I really need to go now. My dog has a small bladder," I lie.

"Okay, but you have to come for yoga on Tuesday," he says, reaching for his phone to arrange a ride home for me.

"What, like, here? Private instruction, at your house?"

"Yeah."

"Fancy!" I exclaim teasingly. I don't actually respond to the invitation. Instead I inquire about the car service. "So, this isn't a taxi then? I don't have much cash..."

"No no, don't worry about it. It's taken care of." I thank him, feeling guilty as I gather my things. But he doesn't seem fazed or upset or hurt, just mildly surprised by my abrupt departure. He walks me as far as his door, slipping on a pair of seersucker shorts he grabs along the way. He thanks me for coming over, for the dancing, etc, and I thank him once again for providing a car for me. I close the door gently behind me and walk to the elevator, glancing at my phone to check the time. It's just after four am.

When I reach the lobby, the first thing I see is Doc, his hand on the backseat door handle of a shiny black Lincoln MKT. The lobby doors have already been propped open in preparation for my departure. I'll tell Mason about this moment later, too. It was like an invisible red carpet leading me straight to my Ride Home of Shame. I walk the ten steps to my waiting chariot and Doc bids me good evening with a tired but neutral expression.

I feel pretty tired and neutral myself.

I tell the driver my cross streets and he nods quietly before asking me if I'd like some water, or gum, or a change in the temperature. I decline all of these and relax into the cool leather, grateful that the sun hasn't yet risen. When we reach my building, I unzip my clutch to look for cash to tip the driver. "No, is payed for," he says, shaking his head. I hand him a ten anyway.

The next morning there's a missed text from Mathew on my phone: a picture of the two rings and the bracelet I left sitting on his Matisse book, captioned Perfect for a still life. I mentally kick myself, hard, before replying.

Gah! I knew I'd forget those.

I take it as a lovely reason for us to hang out again this week.

I have no idea what to say to this. I finally settle on Yeah? What do you have in mind?, mostly because I'm curious.

Hmm, putting me on the spot for an adventure... Picnic in the park? Reflexology in side by side chairs?

Wow. Those are some graduate level activities right there.

Haha, I also cook dinner and watch movies.

I don't answer. Instead I text Cameron. Are you around? I had an adventure last night...

- - -

Mathew texts a couple more times over the next few days with invitations that I decline. On Friday, I take a break from writing the final lines of a blog post about him to ask if he'd mind dropping my jewelry in the mail. No rush, just whenever you have a chance. He answers immediately.

- Boo! No hanging out for us?

I tell him that he's awesome and very fun, etc., but that I don't have a car and he lives hecka far, blah blah blah. I put the phone down and return to writing my post.

He counters right away with an offer for a "subway date". Meeting me somewhere I can easily take the train to, like Hollywood. I also bike downtown all the time, he adds. I stare at his text, reflecting back on the evening, wondering if it was really as bad as I've since made it out to be. His enthusiasm for wanting to see me again is, after all, really nice, and not something I've experienced very much in the past year. I think of what Lorena and I discussed that night, about the attentiveness of younger men.

I look at my phone.

I look at my blog post.

I don't know what to type in either place.

July 8, 2013

I know a man who mistakes arrogance for confidence.

Every morning, he dresses himself in his accomplishments. One by one, he lovingly pulls them on like beribboned medals, pinning them across his shoulders, checking the mirror to see how they reflect on him. He's quite satisfied with what he sees.

He walks out into the world, clinking and clanging, proudly announcing to anyone within earshot what each token represents. Everyone he meets already knows, though, because he's a record on repeat. They nod politely, abiding his conceit with patience, wishing he'd stop making so much noise.

He fancies himself an expert in the art of achievement.

He's happy to tell you what you're doing wrong, because it's an opportunity to talk about what he does right. He is his own favorite example of success. 

He is the master of the humble brag, and he never met a buzzword that didn't get him hard.

Women exist as an abstraction to him. He'll talk all day about how much he "values" them, but that's because he thinks he's supposed to say that. But listen to him speak about them and you can sense his misogyny. Women have hurt him, and he's out to hurt them back. He views them as challenges, as objects to be conquered. Beauty is their only selling point. The more attractive a woman he can place on his arm, the more impressive he deems himself.

He belongs to several dating sites, because he thinks he looks irresistible on paper.

He is incredibly, devastatingly, transparently insecure. Validation is heroin to him. The envy of others, crack cocaine. He is exhausted by the need to prove his worth to others.

He is extremely passive aggressive. When he cannot have something, he immediately and loudly dismisses it. He finds ways to subtly criticize the choices and lifestyles of those who threaten him, because he cannot stomach coming in second in any of life's competitions. And that's what life is to him: a series of competitions.

- - -

I know a man who has no idea how sexy his humility is.

He places his achievements deep in his pockets, assured of their existence, but with no need to put them on display. He makes me dig to find them, and when I do, they are like treasures unearthed. I unwrap the details of his life with delight, while he quietly watches. He doesn't need to say anything, because they speak for themselves.

He accepts praise with modesty, often deflecting it. And when he does, I am moved by a need to make him understand how impressive he is. I want to cup his face, look into his eyes, and tell him that he's amazing. I want to kiss him, utterly charmed by the secrets he's too modest to wear on his sleeve.

He's outgrown the need tick off boxes on a public bucket list. He either does things or he doesn't, but he doesn't parade his privilege in front of others, tone deaf to how entitled and boastful he appears.

If you asked him about the woman he loves, he'll tell you how smart, funny, and talented she is. "And she's pretty," he'll add as an afterthought.

I know a man who makes me feel like there's room for me in his life, because it isn't already too full of himself.