Violet is a Shiteater, 5/23/17 Tuesday, 10:33am

You had a yellow scab on your face yesterday. You could feel the pus gathering underneath. You picked a tiny corner of it off and it weeped. You observed yourself in the sunlit mirror in the living room of where you work. You still sincerely hope there are not nanny cams. You doused your wound with the hand sanitizer you keep in your purse. You have a nice Coach bag but you still pick your scabs. It burned. You cringed. But you love the burn.

The woman you work for last night lectured you. You’ve dropped the ball a few times, organizationally. In your defense, this past week was the first week she was actually at work.

Oh my god, my roommate is being so annoying. She’s listening to stupid youtube videos at the table and I’m in the middle of trying to write something. Oh well. That makes this writing authentic, right? That it wasn’t written in perfect conditions? Oh wait, I actually think I just saw her out of the corner of my eye get up and grab headphones. Maybe she noticed my slight-cringe. Or, maybe it just dawned on her that it was loud. Either way, I appreciate it.

Anyway. I don’t like fucking up. “I need you to be organized for me”, was what the woman said. She said it nicely, but the intent of the conversation was obvious: she was reprimanding me. It didn’t make me feel good. But in my defense it is a lot to organize at once. And I haven’t been there very long at all. I’m still very new. Still, I know that was basically my memo to stop fucking up. The pressure is on me to be more organized than ever.

I didn’t like that convo. It made me feel lowly. It made me feel like a child caught doing something bad. But I’m a grown, fleshy woman. I’m tired of being reprimanded. My mom all my life was very big on the reprimanding, and now I seem to have picked out a new job where I’ll be reprimanded as well.

Don’t get me wrong. The job is a good job in a lot of ways. They pay me well. And are very fair. And let me eat their food.

But it’s very clear we’re not equals. From the conversation last night, I felt very inferior. The job description called for a “third spouse”, but it’s very clear that they only want that in some regards; in other regards, I’m still to serve and look up to them. It’s hard, because I really don’t know these people very well. I’ve only really had a handful of rather shallow conversations with both the mother and the father, and now I’m in their house with their children trying to make inferences on the spot as to what the best way to react to every rising situation would be.

The younger boy was rude to his piano teacher yesterday. This has been an ongoing thing. The piano teacher is very nice and passionate about what she does. The younger boy doesn’t have a lot of manners with adults. When I mentioned this to the mother at our little talk, she nodded her head and said she would be on board with me trying to reel him in a bit, but she also said that she would be looking into another piano teacher who was a little harder on the kid, who would discipline him. I kinda feel like it’s not her job to discipline an unruly kid, because she’s a piano teacher, not a babysitter. It’s my job and the parents job to be disciplining the kid. She’s a nice, professional person, and shouldn’t be asked to put up with or wrangle with, disrespect. And if the kid is ill-behaved, it’s not her fault for not knowing how to control it; it’s not her job to fight with him. That’s a behind the scenes job. Anyway, I can tell the piano teacher was frustrated when she left yesterday, perhaps even  a bit frustrated with me because she expected me to intervene more with the kid (I didn’t interject several times to tell him he was being disrespectful and to stop). However, I got the disappointment from both sides, because when I told the mom about it, she said, “well, she should no how to discipline a kid”, which I just really disagreed with on the inside. So now I’m a bit concerned that I’m going to continue to disagree with these people’s parenting philosophy. It’s very hard to play “third spouse”, or be any sort of nanny-like-figure, when you just don’t have matching instincts with the parents about what the right course of action is. Obviously, they’re not my kids, and I should default to the parents. I’m not an idiot: I’m not going to push what I think it right when it’s not welcomed. I did this with my last job: kind of found myself in instances where I was swallowing my values and what I thought was best to “fit in” with the pre-existing family philosophy, which, while being clearly out of whack to me, as an outsider, was seemingly perfectly accepted by all other members of the family.

Yeah. So, it’s a small thing, but it my eyes, it’s indicative of a big thing. It seems she was quick to brush off my concerns, and immediately went on to placing blame on another person rather than her son. I really don’t like that. That whole thing. And I do think the kid needs some serious manner-adjustment. So yeah. I want to do a good job for these people. But it already doesn’t seem natural for me in some ways, being there. I already feel like I can’t be completely honest with the woman. Which to me is the worst feeling, and kind of a deal breaker. When I’m working with your kids and your home, I should be able to be honest with you. It’s a necessity.

Nothing really to do except stick it out, and try hard to at least be as organized as possible and not drop-the-ball anymore. And I will try to be honest with her in a tactful way. That’s something I won’t compromise on. I’m not going to lie. If I think something’s right or wrong, I’ll say it, but I’ll try to find a nice way to say it that doesn’t sound abrasive to her. That to me is doing the job they hired me for.

But yeah, being a nanny/personal assistant isn’t as easy as you’d think. It’s a juggling act. There are two sons, a mom, and a dad. And I have to juggle their personalities and their commitments, cook their meals, know their schedules, and mediate between them. It actually requires one to be exteeeeemeelely diplomatic. In a way, I’m realizing it’s an absolute minefield. It seemed easy to me at first, but I’ll admit, I was suspicious of its seeming easiness, and now I know why. There are a lot of ways to mess up. Thankfully, I think I’m actually pretty good at this balancing act of personalities. I have my dysfunctional childhood to thank for that.

So yeah. This is where I am right now. I have this job. And I don’t want to be fired hahahaha. I need to get my shit together. Be really good on my end.

I had a meeting with a guy yesterday. He has connections to a lot of major studios. We had a great time talking for about three hours in his West Hollywood apartment. He has connections to Amazon, Netflix, HBO and Showtime. So he could be really great for me to know in the future.

And the woman I work for was nice in that she said she’d get me scripts to read if I asked her for them. So I’m excited about that. I’m going to do some research to figure out which scripts to ask for now.

I went to Taco Bell last night after meeting up with my friend. I fell asleep with a chicken quesadilla next to me and string lights aglow over my head. The Redhead tried to sext me four sexts between the hours of 3 and 6 in the morning. I told him I think our schedules are off.

I want this. I want commercial success. I want to write a show and sell my show and have my show do well. I’m starting to feel aggressive about it. I don’t want to settle for scraps. I want the Big Thing. I don’t want to be lectured. I feel too superior for that. I have my own vision.

In a way, it’s going to be uncomfortable for me, being an assistant for another year, but I guess we all have to eat shit in different ways.

No Sex for Violet, 5/22/17 Mon. 11:39am

The water in her apartment is shut off, again. Seemingly every other day, the water gets shut off. The exact reasons, no one knows. Something to do with the pipes, we all assume. The toilets won’t flush. You can use you imagination there. It’s getting hot, sticky, summer is creeping into their homes, and their showers won’t work; there’s no running water. She’s goes to make coffee, but there’s no water for coffee. There’s a tiny bit of water in the fridge, and she figures she should drink it as is, instead of using it for coffee,, since she’s not sure when the water will be turned back on. It dawns on her that the water being shut off this frequently is becoming a problem. She thinks about texting her landlord: “exactly why does this happen so often?” but she doesn’t want to come off as rude. Still, she almost feels like they should be offered some sort of rent compensation, sense so often the water is not working for showers, laundry, teeth brushing, coffee making, drinking water. I mean, they’re paying for a functioning apartment with drinking water, and if that water is shut off, the apartment is not livable, and it happens allllllll the time. She badly needs to do laundry and she badly needs to take a shower and she badly needs to make some more coffee. Hopefully, by the time she’s done writing, the water problem will be solved and she will be able to finally take a shower.

She had a three day weekend and she wasted it all. She can’t even remember exactly what she was doing. It just passed. She spent time on the internet, and time talking to men. She ate canned salmon mixed with mayonnaise and pesto, like a cat. She went to bar Sinister with her friend Morgan and it was disappointing. She had drunk a lot, almost ten shots. And she cried almost the whole time. Morgan listened to her. “I hate everything about my life”, Violet wept. In the morning, she wondered if alcohol was causing her to become overly emotional, or if alcohol was simply allowing her to be honest and uninhibited about the gross extent of her chronic dissatisfaction.

And this morning, she doesn’t like her life. Her apartment is ugly and small with outdated, dark wood features and her roommate is sweet, but bossy and domineering, and she likes to tell Violet what to do, such as the proper way to put dishes in the dishwasher, even though Violet likes the way she puts dishes in the dishwasher herself. And she’s plastered the apartment with tacky, unframed movie posters. And Violet probably annoyed Morgain this weekend with all the crying, but she just can’t bring herself to care. She wants to make scrambled eggs and canned salmon but it’s a fast day. She hasn’t been losing weight. For the past, like, 6 weeks, she’s hovered at 185-188lbs. Just balanced, normal eating, I guess. But fat, fat, fat. Violet hates everything about the way she looks. Her face is all wrong. Her body is all wrong. And now she has herpes. And her pussy keeps erupting in sores. And no one will ever love her now. She is a leper. She can’t have sex normally now. And having herpes puts her at an advanced risk of contracting HIV. So casual sex is really out the window. But she’s so horny. Cuz she might be a sex addict. Which is funny, because the two are unrelated: the herpes and the sex addiction: she got the herpes from a monogamous boyfriend, one of two boyfriends she’s ever had in her whole life, not from sleeping around. But that’s life: sick, weird, something that doesn’t make sense. Now Violet is a pariah. If she takes antiviral medication, and uses condoms, risk of transmission goes down to something like 1%. But still, it’s an awkward conversation she has to have with anyone she ever wants to have sex with again. It’s such a buzz kill. Such a mood kill. If you tell someone you have herpes, it sucks all the sex appeal out of the conversation. She doesn’t know when the right time to bring it up would be. But for now it seems, casual sex is out of the question. She doesn’t feel like telling people, like being vulnerable in that sort of way, like having to make excuses for and justify her condition. But she can’t not tell people, that would make her a horrible person, and she is unable to do that as well. And so she will be alone. She will masturbate alone, furiously, chronically in her room, where she can release herself and not bring harm to others. And then she will continue about her day, a normal, upstanding citizen. Men will try to fuck her, and she will turn them down, and they will think it is because she is snobby but really it is because she does not want to give them herpes. And she will probably be alone like that forever, unless the perfect man comes along, someone she could see herself being with forever, and he courts her, and then, after several romantic dates, even then the conversation will have to come, it will have to, and she will have to tell him. And that moment will be painful for her, because he might reject her. And unlike a casual sex partner, she would care about him, the one who could have been the One, had her asshole boyfriend not ruined her life, not given her herpes.

She has her picture up on Positive Singles, now, and it makes her cringe. Every time she visits that site. Maybe she should get off it: the site makes her feel stigmatized every time she visits it. She doesn’t want to be identify with Herpes, she doesn’t want it to be her brand. It’s a shit thing that happened to her. And it sucks. And she doesn’t want to dwell on it. Maybe she’ll stay on OKcupid and Tinder, but just be more discriminating than ever. No more hookups, it appears. Just very serious dating. That’s ok. Ideally, it’s what she always wanted. She settled for casual sex because she was lonely and horny, but she’s always wanted some sort of real, respectable love.

She’s going to hang out with Joshua tonight, to talk about his tv shows. He’s going to want to fuck her, but she feels somewhat comfortable around him because he’s a gentlemen and a good person. He’s working on shows for Netflix, Amazon and HBO. isn’t that incredible? She has so much to ask him. This could be a major in for her, but she’ll have to tapdance around the fact that he wants to fuck her, and she just wants information and professional contacts. She can’t actually fuck her way to the top. She wouldn’t have done it anyways, because it doesn’t sit well with her, but she especially can’t do it now that she has herpes.

Her room doesn’t have an air conditioning. It’s awful. The other rooms do: the living room and her roommate’s bedroom. She’s the unfortunate soul without an air conditioning unit. So she’ll spend the majority of her summer days in the living room. And only really spend her nights in her bedroom, splayed across her bed, with the hot night air seeping through the open screen window, and the two fans she’s purchased and set up about her room blowing across her naked, damp body.

Then there is this new guy. Some sort of writer. He’s a journalist. And a possible sex addict. He’s really good at sexting, because he’s a writer. And he’s even better at phone sex: he called her last night, and she was surprised but she picked up anyway. She knew what he wanted, what the purpose of the call was: but phone sex makes her feel really awkward. But he took care of that for her. Immediately he plunged into rapid fire dirty talk that was actually quite seductive. She didn’t feel like she had to say or be responsible for a thing. He brushed upon her deepest, darkest fantasies: was genuinely exciting to her. And he wants to take her out to dinner sometime this week, he wants to fuck, but no, no, she has herpes. But you know what, maybe herpes is a good thing, because she shouldn’t be fucking these random people anyway. But prior to herpes she was willing to compromise herself and her desires for some instant gratification, but now that she has herpes, well, herpes changes things. Herpes forces her to be responsible in a way she should have been being responsible anyway.

This new man, this smooth sex talker, he’s a ticking clock. Because she knows she has a few short days before she has to turn him down. She’ll tell him it’s because though has a very high sex drive, and has enjoyed their playful sexting and thrilling phone sex banter, she’s not wishing to sleep around at this point in her life. He will take that how he takes it. That’s not a lie. It’s true. Either he will continue to pursue her, or he will fuck off in hopes of finding something easier, then. Or, he will try to pursue her. He might try to be her Man. in which case, she will probably still turn him down, because he’s not the One. she already knows he’s not the One, she’s just playing, just having fun on the sidelines, as a distraction to the monotony of her cruel, dull life. But he’s not the One. He’s not the One to have that conversation with, he’s not the One she wants to be with. Still, she can’t help but be curious about what sex with him would be like…still, there’s a higher self and a lower self, and she’s been letting her lower self control her for too long. When she goes to church with Amanda, she thinks of God as being her higher self, when all the other believers are singing about him literally. That is how she is able to get some peace and inspiration from church as an atheist.

The Heat is Coming, 5/20/17 Sat. 1:18pm

It’s hot. It’s 92 degrees and Violet hates it. She feels a panic rising in her: she can’t deal with this heat for the whole summer. They’ll make a plan: they’ll use the AC….and they’ll leave the doors open and the windows closed to increase circulation. And they’ll keep it at 75 degrees, no less and no higher. She can live in 75 degrees. Anything else is uncomfortable. It’s hard enough to work, to focus, to do her errands, her tasks, without feeling like her body is stuck in a thick, hot soup.

She has the terrible brain fog again. It might be because she drank alcohol last night and ate a lot of carbs. She doesn’t love the way drinking makes her feel. And last night she drank a lot. At least 7 or 8 drinks. And she didn’t feel drunk at all. She hardly felt buzzed. There was a drinking game. People were taking shots. She played. It was her friend’s bf’s surprise birthday party. It actually worked: he was surprised. There were lots of pretty, generic looking people there. He is an actor and had lots of actor friends. They were nice to Violet. When she went to the bathroom, she saw she, too, looked attractive, though she didn’t feel it. Her jaw is cracking. Feels like she wants to rip her lower jaw off her head. Ugh, fuck this brain fog. Writing this is difficult. She’s not saying anything good. Yesterday, someone turned her down because she has herpes. She understands that. But they didn’t do it in a nice way. They were short about it and it made her feel bad. Maybe she’s supposed to be alone for a long time. Maybe she should stop trying so hard to find love. You can’t force life. Maybe Violet is forcing. Maybe she needs to wait and breath and go to the steampunk coffee shop and order a large iced coffee and sit and read her book for hours and just let life happen. Work on her tv show. Go to work. Go dancing tonight at bar sinister with the friends she has. The friends who asked her to go. Wake up early in the next morning and hike. Don’t eat. Lose weight. Look good in clothes. Look good and be alone. Her ex boyfriend was texting her last night, at the party. He’s the one who gave her herpes. Her anger has been delayed until now. Now her anger at him is a slammed door between them. His “gift” to her is making her feel gross, making her feel hard to love. She doesn’t like that she now has to tell every person she is getting serious about that she has herpes. She doesn’t like that it increases the odds that they will reject her.

The Small Things You Can Change, May 18th, 2017 12:11pm

The biggest challenge of my life will be accepting the way things are and making the best of them. Basically, distinguishing between what I can change, and focusing my energy productively and constructively into those things, in a wholesome way, and not ruminating and becoming incredibly distressed, depressed, and sullen, over the things I cannot changed.

It sucks, cuz I really was born quite the sensitive little idealist. But our personalities are in flux. Things are not constant. Our personalities are a 3-d map through time. Different parts of you become stronger and weaker. We adapt. We adapt sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly. Almost always, we adapt because staying the way we are is causing us pain. We adapt in response to the world. We adapt to become a person who can survive in the world less painfully.

I’m trying to think of ways I’ve consciously willed myself to adapt. When I was a teenager, I became conscious of the fact that I was shy and reserved as compared to other kids, particularly popular kids, who were loud and seemed like they just said things without thinking if they were ok or not to say. I was a responsible kid, actually, nothing like I am now, and I actually willed myself to be less responsible and more free spirited. I wanted to be a “fun” “party” person, not an uptight, nervous person. And you know what, I became that. In college, I was funny and loud. Everyone thought of me as funny and clever and “free spirited”, and even a bit “crazy”. But then I found myself too off the rails. I needed to come back. That’s what I’ve been working on in the past few years, particularly since I got to LA: being the right mix of responsible and free spirited at the appropriate times. I’ve also lately been willing myself to feel less responsible for other people, I’ve been willfully forming a barrier between myself and them, willfully becoming more discerning and discriminating as to who is in my life. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be everything to everybody. I wanted to be everyone’s favorite girl. Now, approaching 25, I realize I will live what is considered a good life if I find my niche: specific and artfully cared for and curated people, things, and hobbies that I like. If I can find a few good friends to be with me few my days, I’ll be lucky. I’m also realizing that not everyone thinks like me. This lesson in particular took twenty years to learn. It’s easy to “know” that on a surface level, but to really internalize it takes a lot of struggle and strife. Not everyone, in fact, the great majority of people, are as sensitive and analytical and dare I say, “nervous” as me. Other people literally see their lives and the world in a different way that I do. I am looking through “Violet lenses”. Everyone wakes up every morning looking through their own eyes. And they are the protagonists in their own stories, and I am just a side character if they come into contact with me, as they are in mine and to me. I’m now willfully trying to become a person who doesn’t try to guess what people think, or doesn’t jump the gun and come to conclusions about people. I realize I’m not omnipotent. I simply don’t know. I don’t people’s lives or their families or their experiences that have caused them to think and see and be and act the way they do. I can take educated guesses, but I have to acknowledge that even those are just very barely skimming the surface of an individual. I think I need to spend time looking at each person as a blank slate and letting them tell me their story, instead of jumping the gun and inferring it about them. But also, I understand that making inferences about people is a self -protective mechanism that has probably served me well, and that looking at everyone as a blank slate would probably leave me vulnerable to harm from others. Balance, I guess. Right now, I think I’m too quick to figure out someone’s “deal”, instead of just letting them explain or show it to me in their own due time. I know this comes from a place of anxiety and a need to know “where I stand” with people at all times. It’s actually a pretty smart protective instinct. But it means that I’m approaching every newcomer from a place of fear and distrust. I get that. I’m not going to tell myself to be less fearful and more trusting. But I do think I should try to let people tell me who they are and work on my listening instead of my talking.

What’s new. Amanda has hung her posters around the apartment, and we’ve moved all the furniture around to accommodate her desk and keyboard. At first, I was annoyed by the proposition, but the whole thing actually looks good and cozy, if not a little cramped, so I’m happy with it. I like having Amanda around: she’s a warm presence. Norma is at her boyfriend’s a lot. I like waking up and having Amanda buzzing around in the kitchen. Someone to say goodbye to as I’m leaving and hello to as I’m arriving. Someone to talk to about my day. It’s funny, because Amanda is very Christian, and I’m so very dark and jaded and atheist. And I’ve told her this, not trying to be offensive, but also recognizing that it might be. But she’s pretty good with me. We’ve had a lot of “open” talks. I don’t feel like I’m offending her. I think her trust in God is so great that some dark haired, pale skinned, snake-like, sardonic roommate isn’t going to shake her belief in the divine order of the world.

In a way, I’m envious of her. I’ve just been kind of observing her in awe. She trusts that good things and bad things all have purpose, are all part of some predetermined and purposeful order. I wish I could feel that way but I just can’t. My word is chaotic and always has been: flipped over cars on fire, kids being bullied until they kill themselves: my world and my experiences have been too chaotic. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t ruminate on all the bad things. Among the bad things, there are good things: really good food, and puppies, and great tv shows, and nights out dancing, and beautiful sunsets. But the bad the bad things are mixed with the good things. And the way I’ve seen, nothing in my life has ever seen very purposeful, but rather, very chaotic, like just a complete shitshow, like random change falling out of someone’s pockets that the person does not realize they are dropping. And it’s been my task and my greatest challenge trying to derive purpose from and make sense out of a life that is objective to me and nonsensical. Amanda and I are both seeking meaning and understanding in our worlds: but she looks upward to God to do it, and I, not believing in God, look inwardly, to myself.

The one thing that makes me is strong, if not a little sad. I feel world weary, sardonic, pissed off, annoyed, like a cranky old man. But I know my heart is still good, and pure. I’m angry, but I’m angry from a righteous place. I’m angry because I’ve seen too many bad things happen to good people. I’m angry because there are so many things out of my control: my family, the world, and even myself: I can only really have influence over a few small things.

And those things really have to do with myself: I can’t change the world and I can’t change my family. And I can’t really even change most of myself. A large part of my personality is simply genetic. But I can change small, but important things. I can’t help that I’m very emotional, but I can find a way to deal with that innate personality trait in a very constructive way instead of a destructive one. I can choose to see my innate personality as a gift and constantly be looking for ways to optimize who I am, instead of feeling weighed down by myself. I can work on time management. I can learn to cook and clean my house. I can choose good friends, carefully.

More Thoughts on God, Religion, Spirituality, and Science, 5/16/17, 7:07am, Tues.

I am trying to figure out God. I feel like an idiot when I talk about him.

I’m not necessarily talking about the Judeo-Christian God. In fact, if pressed, I don’t believe Jesus was “the son of God”. I believe in a God that is greater than any religion. I don’t think the Bible represents God. I think it represents a sliver of man’s understanding about God, as do other Holy books written in other religions. I think this force is the same thing. I know it is. It’s not something to be owned, or claimed. It’s not something one continent or culture has a monopoly on. It’s what the Native Americans were preaching before we killed them all: Spirit. Spirit runs through all things. You don’t have to be some crazy, mystical person to believe it. You can believe in science. I first and foremost believe in science. I don’t believe in creationism. But I believe in a force that works along with science and is itself, most likely, scientific. I don’t necessarily know if this force is a Loving God, until we choose to open ourselves to it. I think it opens itself to you when you open yourself to it. These are thoughts that would make me a pariah at Mosaic, the modern Christian church I’ve been frequenting with Amanda.

I really am an atheist. A secular humanist. But I’m spiritual. Maybe I’m just an extremely emotional person and this “spirit” I feel is really just my own emotions being very sensitive, my imagination acting up, like we know it does. I’m a writer after all and a very creative, imaginative person. Rationally, that looks to be the best option. I’m creative and with being creative often comes a sense of the spiritual. Being creative forces you to have kind of more abstract thinking…you’re always looking for how things relate to other things, by nature. I think a sense of spirituality is very easily evolved from that sort of disposition. And the fact that I’m so emotional makes me feel more vulnerable: and when you feel more vulnerable, you’re more likely to wish for a God. You’re in pain, and you need Someone to make sense of the Pain. Religion is a brain’s protective mechanism. Religion was created out of suffering. If everyone felt ok in how things are, we wouldn’t be looking for something deeper.

In fact, if you really had to push, I’m not spiritual or religious at all. Yeah, my last blog post could have fooled you, but I’m a very dedicated writer, and I’m very into “getting into” whatever it is I’m writing.  I don’t necessarily believe that there is a God. But I want to feel like there is. So I can rationally separate feeling from thinking. It makes me feel better to think that there is force out there who is beyond me, and caring for me, who knows what I am going through, and who doesn’t lose sight of me when I am in the midst of the worst. Losing people for example, is very, very hard. Or when people don’t like you. If you believe in God, you can say, and there is great comfort in saying, “for whatever reason, God, or whatever I wanna call it, didn’t want that person in my life. And God knows more than me and is greater than me. I have only lived 24 years, and God has existed before the universe was created. I would have kept trying to be close to that person, because I don’t have the wisdom that God does. I may be a smart, perceptive human. But I’m not God. I’m not omnipotent. God knows. And he or she or it—I think it’s an It but we call it a He to make an abstract concept more graspable—”knew” that we weren’t supposed to be together. I also feel like if there is God, we personify to make It easier to understand. If God if anything, it is not really a God, but a force, more than anything, and we think of It in Humanistic terms, and as having humanoid features, so that we are able to more easily picture and relate to something that, by its very nature, cannot actually be defined or limited. So a more realistic, more objective way of what probably happened can be described as: whatever this force is, it detected that our energies weren’t in sync, and it drew us apart.

But we like to change that section to “God didn’t want that person in my life” because we want to personify God. We want to feel like we can conversate with God, but God is beyond our language. Or perhaps God takes different forms. But it’s root is not humanoid.

Anyways, I’ve eaten up a lot of this Artist Pages explaining and thinking instead of just writing what comes to mind.

I had a hard time getting up this morning. My alarm went off at 6am and I got up 25 minutes later. I lay in the freezing morning light, spilling onto my bed. For the past three nights it’s been frigid at night, like it is in winter. Soon, it will be getting really hot. I have to go buy more fans.

What I really like about God is that I think believing in him serves a purpose, whether or not He or It exists as we think of him, or exists at all, is almost besides the point. The point in him is that the belief in him serves pragmatic purpose. If believing in God can cause you to turn your life around, when it was previously going in a really bad, dark, dangerous direction, if believing in God can comfort you, and make you feel better about you and your loved ones dying, and help you get through your worst moments without losing your goddamn mind, and help you reframe events that happened to you in a way that fills you with pride instead of shame, a pride that then allows you to go on and have the confidence and courage to do more pragmatic, tangible, helpful things in the world for yourself and for others…if that’s the case, believing in God is actually really pragmatic and almost necessary. Like Louis Ck said, “there are no atheist soup kitchens.”

Maybe, you’re less emotionally reactive than I am. People do have varying levels of emotionality. It’s been proven scientifically. I’m kind of torn, because I’m extremely emotional. And i don’t think I have to tell you that. But I’m also almost, if not equally, as rational. I have powerful feelings, that I am aware of and pay attention, but I also have a rationality that weighs against everything I feel and challenges it.

I’m not a stony-cold test-tube person. I write poetry and cry all the time and have an extremely expressive voice. But I’m also not some religious zealot, some mystic. I think most self help books are garbage, and I always want to see the quantifiable proof to something. I’m not easily swayed. I’m hard nosed in looking for real Truth, and not just “biased Truth”.

Part of me wants to be religious. But I just can’t make that leap, because there’s another part of me too, who has her test tubes and measuring stick. And I love that part of me. She keeps me from losing it. In fact, I don’t think they’re separate parts of me. They’re really one part. I really am both. The two parts of myself aren’t actually separate….they run through each other…they are each other.


Violet is Swollen With Sin, 5/15/17, Monday, 8:42am

God, I need you today. Please be with me. The woman in the church says you do not leave, but sometimes it feels it, God, why are you watching me make a mockery of myself? If it is true that you made me to be something beautiful, then doesn’t it make you cringe to watch me self mutilate the way I do? God, you gave me a gift, and I don’t know how to take care of it. God, I am afraid I am inadequate, because I have proven it to myself.

The man at the church said I wonder how many times we make our worlds smaller out of anxiety. God, I think I keep shooting myself in the foot so I don’t have to step forward. I keep telling myself I want something, a bold and bright future, but I am afraid that my soft-cave skin will melt in the sunlight, that it won’t be able to take the glare, I am afraid of being exposed, God, I have grown so used to shadows and echoes, and wet, stony, damp, dripping, cave spots, covered with algae and moss. The sun is bright, God, and it hurts my eyes. It looks so aggressive, God, just this tiny streak of sunlight is enough to pierce me, send me backwards on my hands and knees, howling, like an animal who has been shot at. God, you keep telling me I am strong, but I am afraid of sunlight. God, when will you tire of me? They say your plan is perfect. The say you don’t make mistakes. But god, why make my path so difficult, why choose a girl so filled with fear to do your most courage-taking things?

God, I’m so ugly. They say you never leave. They say you’re in the room right now. And God, I’m embarrassed. I know there is makeup under my eyes. I know my cheeks are pale and puffy. I know my nose is leaky. I know my hair looks ratty, piled up unto my head. God, if it true that you have been watching this whole time, then it is true you have seen right through me, from the very time I was born, to the place I am now, you never stopped seeing, you never stopped knowing, watching my every thought, my every feeling, my every anger and passion and opinion develop and form capillary-like intricacies. God you watched as I attempted to create myself, through one identity and then another, and then, another, over the years, and stumbled, and stumbled.

God, I pray to you. Maybe other people do it better. With their crucifixes around their necks, and their Sunday best. I don’t mean to sound mean spirited, I don’t mean to make a mockery of them, but I don’t necessarily understand them, God. Why do I feel you calling to me, me, who never believed in you, who abused your name, who spit faithlessness out of the side of her mouth like stinging tobacco chew. God, you gave me a heart of gold and light, and that is one thing I do not doubt. But God, the delivery sure needs some work. I don’t present well. I’m a fearful little mess. I’m afraid of being alone in a room with men. I heard my voice come out this morning to talk to the man who was fixing our garbage disposal and it came out like a squeak. God, I went to church with my friend again, yesterday, and I sang the songs they asked me to even though I felt like an idiot doing so. Secretly, I thought the songs were beautiful, and my heart hungered for you in the way the songs described, and I wanted to sing it, but I was afraid of looking like an idiot, God, and then I felt stupid for that, because I was in a church where everyone was praising you, but I felt like maybe I would look stupid doing it. Other people were raising their hangs, but the most I could do was hold my hands behind my back and stand straight and sing, looking straight ahead. It took everything I had to prevent caving in on myself: how my back wanted to hunch forward, how my arms wanted to fold over my stomach and chest, how I yearned in that moment for my hair to fall like a curtain around my humiliated face. But I sang to you, God, it was not my best singing voice, but I could hear myself, blending with the voices of others, and my eyes stung with tears, and I kept telling myself, don’t let them spill. Everyone in church looked perfect, this is LA after all, and I didn’t want to be the fat atheist girl with mascara streaks.

God, I’m so off my path. I’m so ashamed. I’m so afraid. I don’t like myself. I saw a picture of myself this morning, taken in a club, and I look like the fat, ugly one out of the people that I’m with. I don’t like the way I look and I don’t like the way I am inside. And I haven’t been reading books, God. I haven’t read in months. And yesterday I picked my nails while watching TV and eat chocolate that made my brain fuzz over.

God, today is full of tasks. There are things that must be done, God. Give me the willpower and discipline to do them. That’s what I lack, God, isn’t it? Discipline. I am not very tough, God. I am very unruly. I want to sing and weep, I love the drama of it all, I am almost comfortable crying, because I have grown so used to it, but I don’t know how to sit down and silently work, without calling attention to myself. I’m not very humble, God. I’m obnoxious and garish. And ugly. An ugly fat man who drenches himself in jewels. I’m fat. I’m full of the seven sins: greed, sloth, rage, lust, envy, it all runs through me, God, I am dripping in sin.

How to be humble in diligent and do the work that needs to be done. I am such an ill-disciplined girl. I live for instant gratification: food, sex, laughter, music, dancing. I am a hedonist. But I must humbly work for you, God, if I am to rise to the heights I feel you calling me towards. This is my deep, dark ditch.  I am afraid I don’t know how to do it! I am afraid I can’t do it! I am so bad at it: working! I know I have gotten as far as I have this far, though some talent and luck, but not hard work, God, I don’t know what such a thing feels like. I am woman of emotion, and intuition, God, you must know this about me, indeed I don’t need to share with you secrets of myself, which, if what they tell me about you is true, you must already know. Whenever I’ve felt a feeling, I’ve just let it wash over me. I know how to be emotional and intuitive and yielding and insightful and perceptive, I know how to have great, sweeping insights, but I don’t know how to do quiet, steady, humble work. How to do boring, monotonous errands, how to do one thing after another, to work steadily and consistently without immediate reward. God, my attention span is so terribly thin. I depress myself with how quickly I cave to the lowest and most immediate desires. God, I know this is the task you present me with, I know this is the challenge you present me with: to learn how to Work. To do it every day, and to do it often.

I don’t want to, God. But I must. I feel you staring at me from across the table. Yes. this was the point of this writing. You are calling on me to quietly Work. To address the parts of my life that need fixing. Sensible parts of my life that need to be addressed. I already know how to have dramatic flair, but you want to see if I can do basic errands. God. I’m smart enough, but I don’t have the attention span. I’m so weak willed. You must work through me, God. I pray deeply and hungrily for you, God, to strengthen my attention span, to help me stave off my most primitive distractions: for sex and sugar and internet, mostly. Help me stay on the straight and narrow. Help me stay on the Good path. I know you are calling on me to rise, and you are calling on me consistently, and I believe ignoring your Word is what has filled me with such an unnamed sense of shame and guilt. You have called on me and I have run from you. I have shut the door and weeped in the darkness. You have asked for me to do something hard and brave and different, something I have no familiarity with. You have been asking me not just this past week, but the past several years, and I have done literally everything in my power to overstep you, to ignore you, to shoot you down. You have been calling on me to rise and I have fought you, tooth and nail, with every self destructive measure I could get my hands on, and God, you know you made me to be intelligent and creative, and God, you knew I attacked my self destruction in the most intelligent and creative ways, and that I was never at a lack for a newly inspired way to hurt myself, and God, you know when I put this mind of mine to something, it so very rarely unsticks. God, you know how I obsess about that things. I have a mind that fixates. I have a spirit that is passionate. I call on you to help me direct my passions in ways that are Healthy, I call on you to help this carnivorous mind of mine fixate on things that will help me grow and not self destruct.

Lord, I am a Mary Magdalen, begging to be saved. I have treated this body you have given me like trash, I have had no discretion, with men or with food, God I have thrown myself around like a cheap trinket, and now am sick with sin, God: my mental and physical health is deteriorating. And it scares me to say it but it is the truth and so I must: if I continue the way I have been going, I won’t live much longer. I am on the Path of Death, God. Help me find and stay on the Path of Life. I am familiar with darkness, God. I am familiar with sin, God: lust, anger, greed, oh and rage, oh, and rage, so sweet, God, you know I am angry. And you know I use my anger as an excuse, God, you know I use the wrongs others have committed against me as excuses to prolong my own self destruction and the destruction I inflict upon others. I fear I have become a street rat. The ugliest sort of person. Someone sneaky, and greedy, and ugly and brash and dark. A creature of the filth and night. Someone with no self discretion. Who will feed off of garbage and human remains.

God, I feel the heat and tightness in my loins rise, now, God. I feel the flutter in my heart that calls to me to fly across the room like some ill-possessed banshee. God, I don’t want to be a lost, wretched woman. God, save me. Meet me where I am and help me walk this awful path ahead of me. God, I must change my entire way of living if I am to Rise. Even now, I feel the temptations. I don’t know how I will make it the next hour without succumbing to my old bad habits, without succumbing to my old patterns of self destructive behavior. God, help me strengthen my motivation. Strengthen my courage. Help me climb this mountain, and the mountain after that, God. Allow my eyes to stay fixed on you, God, for I know the darkness of temptation is all around me, and if I don’t have the blaze of your Glory to focus on, I will lose my way.


Violet is Full of Dumb Hope, 5/13/17 2:17pm, Sat.

I’m sick of writing about myself. I really, really am. It’s like, I have nothing new to say. I haven’t achieved anything since the last time I’ve written. I still feel like “I’m not doing it right”. I still am procrastinating, and don’t seem to be able to get the things done I say I’ll get done. Living is still hard. My medical bills for basic things are very expensive. I feel very bad for poor people. Living is hard. Just staying alive. It’s expensive. It will give you a run for your money.

I saw PJ Harvey with Donny last night. Felt my soul leaving my body. I howled like a wolf for her. Donny was a little drunk. I drank too. Some sort of diet tangerine lime soda from Trader Joe’s. Trying not to drink diet coke. Except I drank it with lunch today at In n’ Out. Diet tangerine soda mixed with vodka. I drank a lot and quickly. I was stressed. I was panicky. There was traffic on the way to Donny’s House. I was nervous about the logistics of actually getting into the theatre. I wore a very dark purple blue colored lipstick. It was more like a lip paint. I couldn’t figure out how to get it even. It’s very hard to do even when I’m sober and by that point I had been drinking. He fixed. I asked him if he was sure he wasn’t gay. He rolled his eyes at me.

Donny called PJ “Peej”. He yelled it at the concert, when she was done performing her songs. I thought that was embarrassing, but also endearing. PJ was amazing. She sounded better in person than she does on Spotify, if that’s possible. PJ Harvey concert goers like to wear black. The crowd was very cool people in their late 30s I would say. In their 40s, too. Gen X-ers, I had told Donny they would be. I fit in. When I went to the ladies room, I felt like my “look” blended in perfectly well with the crowd’s. That so very rarely happens. I felt like I belonged. I felt like PJ was singing to me. It was shamanistic. It was spiritual. PJ crooned and my insides responded to her. I wanted to get closer. The part of me that is feral wanted to crawl down the stairs and into the pit to dance with the other people who have enough money to spend $200 on seats (ours were $20). I wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream for her. Instead, I swayed in my seat. Donny was sweet. “This is a peak moment for me” I told him. And he held and stroked my hand.

Afterwards, we walked back to Donny’s. He lived very close to the Greek Theater. The Greek Theater was beautiful by the way. I’d love to go back. It’s a great venue. Everyone was in their cars, stuck in traffic, trying to leave the venue, and we walked right by them. I wanted to hang around the venue for a bit and scope people out. Everyone there seemed very “cool”, like the people I have been looking for but have unable to find. But Donny didn’t want to stay: he was hungry, and wanted to go home and eat and go to bed early so he could get up the next morning and work. I dragged my feet. “I could’ve met my husband”, I told Donny, bitterly. “That could have been it.” “Go back”, he told me, not sympathetic. I thought about it. But I didn’t have the courage. My soul yearned to be with the other PJ Harvey appreciators, but I’m too timid, I lack the courage. And besides, it seemed like everyone was leaving anyway. If I went back I would have been a girl standing alone, looking around, hoping for someone, the right person, to come and talk to me. It felt sad walking home. Because watching PJ perform had been such a high. Walking home, I came down from that high. It felt very sad. I knew I was walking away from that sense of connection, from that sense of belonging. Being plunged back into alone-ness again. I didn’t want to sound whiney to Donny. But I really didn’t want to rush leaving. I knew that was a good moment for me, a good place, a good time. And my life has been hard. And I guess I am a little whiney. I just wanted to make the thing I felt was good last.

Well, at least now I can say I’ve seen PJ Harvey at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles. That meant something to me.

I’m sad. I feel weird. It’s not a good day. I slept over Donny’s. He fed me cinnamon rolls for breakfast. And I think I’m getting the weird disassociated-depression-brain inflammation thing again. I took some advil and drank some iced coffee. Advil helps with inflammation, right? I hate the way I feel. Last night I felt great. I knew we were going to the concert, and that it would be difficult to get water and go to the bathroom. So, i didn’t eat anything all day except two string cheeses (it’s carbs that make me really thirsty and “blurry-headed”, more than anything). And then night came, and we got to the concert, and I wasn’t thirsty, and I didn’t have to go pee, and I’d planned it all perfectly. Carbs make me feel like shit. But they’re so fun to eat.

Carbs make me depressed and stupid. But I have to find balance. Balance, like I’ve been saying. I don’t want to be crazy about food. I’ll keep it in mind that carbs general make me feel bad. But I can still have cake on someone’s birthday if I want. No rules. I just have to trust myself enough to make the right decisions for myself about what to eat in the moment. That trust has been badly chipped away at, but I believe it can be restored. I have to believe it. You always have to keep trying, even when you’re not sure it will get better. You keep trying, because that is the point of Living, and that is how you do it, up until you Die. and if you’ve Tried the whole way, you can say you’ve lived a full and good life.

So I’m trying today. I’m trying even though the day has not been perfect and I am not perfect and my brain is not perfect and my family is not perfect and my strength is not perfect and my mind is not perfect and my will is not perfect. I am trying though I am so very weak and small. I am trying though the cards stacked against me seem insurmountable from where I am standing. I will keep trying. It doesn’t make rational sense to me. At my most depressed, I rationalized that being alive didn’t make logical sense. And you know what, I maintain that that’s probably true. I stay alive because of hope. Because of something emotional and feeble. We like to make fun of and diminish things of an emotional and spiritual nature. But hope against obscene odds, silly hope, stupid hope, irrational hope, has been the only thing that’s kept me alive. And so its power must be strong. Though science hasn’t found a way to measure its power quantifiably yet. When I reached the darkest corner, I tried to find a rational reason to turn around, but there wasn’t one. I wish I could say otherwise, or, no, I don’t: it’s just how it is. Life is a lot of effort, and there is a lot of pain involved, and we have very little control over most things. And realizing that is the truth, and it makes you feel panicky. Rationally, it might not makes sense to put the energy into living. The reward might not be worth the risk. But Hope. Hope was there. A stupid bird, with its feathers torn out in patches. It could barely fly. It kept attempting to fly upward and then nose diving downwards, flapping its ragged wings pathetically. It seemed to skim the ground at times, but it never touched it. I followed it all the way home.

And now I’m here. Living another hellish day. And i’m pissed off. I want to feel good. I want life to be easy for me. But I don’t feel good. And Life is not easy for me. But here I am, ok? I’m trying. I’m trying right now; this is proof of it. You can’t say I didn’t try. I scraped together whatever pieces of shit crumbs I could find even though it didn’t make any fucking sense to even bother. Living is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Staying alive is for suckers, but I’m not ashamed to be a moron. I want to be stupid and be with the living. Not smart and sardonic and with the dead. I want to pretend that life can have a meaning, that I can make a difference, even though I know it doesn’t make sense; I know it is irrational.

I just want to feel good. I don’t care if isn’t factually correct. I just want some relief. I want to feel like all my pieces have shifted into the right spots and finally clicked there.

Amanda is going to be home soon, my Christian roommate. She believes in God, she believes someone is going to save her. I think it would be so comforting to feel that way, and I’ve even toyed with the idea of being religious, but that is one rationality hurdle I just could not get over. She has little bible quotes hanging on the fridge. I feel invaded by her optimism, but I don’t want to be harsh to her. She has something special and shiny and I don’t want to ruin it.