Just another site

Category: Rants

4:38 PM on a Saturday

Sitting in my room. It’s 4:38 PM. It’s Saturday. And the room isn’t even mine— it’s part of the condo deal that my boss received through the production company she works for. The condo is hers, and yes, I live with her. But she isn’t here right now, or all of next week, which leaves me stuck here, useless, at 4:38 PM on a late Saturday afternoon. The room is all white. It is a modern looking, stainless steal type of condo. I only moved here 2 months ago and this bed is still my default when there are no emails to write or things to return. 
I literally ache for activity.
There is nothing.
I eat some food and I’m not hungry, and then resolve to fall asleep early this time and wake up tomorrow morning with energy for the gym. This is a lie though, and I know it, because I never actually wake up early and go to the gym. In the past, I’ve only done that when life has been something I wanted to ignore, and running seemed to help me with that.
I’m not ignoring life, though. I’m just caught somewhere between action and inaction. I am in a white room, on a bed, at 4:38 PM on a Saturday.
My phone does not ring, my Facebook has no activity, and it won’t have any activity in 5 minutes when I go to check it again, either. I click on the ‘photo booth’ icon on my Macbook and I check my face to see if it still tallies up, and it does. I stare at myself. I feel hopeful and alone at the same time. I see the face going somewhere and doing something, I see someone loving this face, but the face that looks back at me hasn’t showered or changed today and is sitting in bed at 4:38 PM on a saturday. 
I grow annoyed, and flip my computer shut. I am sick of this. I get up and stand on the carpeted floor, unsure of what I’m going to do now that I’ve left the famous bed. I look out the window. It’s almost 5 now, and the day is almost over.  


Running to the other side of infinity

I ran to the other side of


only to find that I was


I would have

Turned around and


But with nobody around,

things just aren’t

as funny.

Thank you Kelly Clarkson

I ran to the other side of infinity, then turned around, and laughed back at it.

This post is about evolution. Changes take place when you least expect them to, and regardless of what/how they enhance or disturb  your life, changes create who you are by how you respond to them.

Looking back at my semester, one could easily think it was a decently shitty semester for me. I did the whole ‘get lost in a relationship’ thing and ‘sacrifice your own happiness for person X’ thing and basically sold my soul to the love devil… or at least a ‘love devil’ impersonator (…WHAT IS LOVE!? AHH). And then, as per literary tradition, the devil turned his back on me and left me in what I thought would be the total shitty, insurmountable dust. –And it was shitty, but not insurmountable. One could look at the fact that I spent half of the semester in a cave listening to ‘Since you been gone’ by Kelly Clarkson and think, wow, that must have sucked– because it did. Kelly Clarkson on repeat is really an all time low. But what nobody will realize, except for me, is that this past semester has probably been one of the best semesters of my life, specifically because of how I chose to respond to an otherwise crappy situation. How one responds to life is what matters. Any kind of hardship (not just whiny, college-girl love problems) can be overcome in a way that makes the struggling individual better.

As obnoxious as it is, Kelly Clarkson is right: —Thanks to you , now I get what I want. But if you’re a little too snobby for Kelly, Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote an equally fitting piece: ‘Every wall is a door.’



Please go away, feeling

Please, go away


Do not stick to me like tar

Sticking to my soul;


“You are not welcome here!”— I shout

But Here you linger.

Invisible and evil .

Seeping through my pores

Right into my marrow

Stealing all sanity there is to steal.

I am rampant

I am sallow

I am nothing

I bellow

Shitting gold aint easy

Well I don’t really know where to begin on this one—I have a lot pent up that is probably about to come out in free flow– you’ve been forewarned. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, which scares me. I love writing. I think I kind of gave up on writing because I have no stories that I want to make up. I want to talk about my real problems, of which there are many (princess problems, someone once told me, but that doesn’t change the fact that they sit and fester if I don’t do something to get them out of me)—I want to talk about real life—but who will want to read this? Maybe I’m just too into myself to be able to get out of myself enough to invent stuff that matters— but isn’t that kind of how it goes, for “writers”? You live your life, get old, and retire to a log cabin somewhere and write your life into stories and elaborated truths?  Or is that just what people with too many problems and too much time on their hands do? I guess I wouldn’t really call myself a writer, then. I don’t know what I am—maybe I’m just a cluster fuck of self-obsession and self pity. I do love myself, though; don’t get me wrong— I love being conflicted. It’s what makes me want to write stuff like this down. It may not be some artistic or intellectual achievement, but at least it’s honest, and that’s all I really want to be anyway, at the bottom of things. Perhaps I do suffer from some form of narcissism and perhaps I do think that I shit gold, but I’ve had this feeling since I was little that I’m supposed to do something great and novel and fabulous in this lifetime—a fantasy of potential in which I doubt I am alone. Maybe it is ego, and maybe I just hope that I am special because my greatest fear is that I have no purpose, but I have always felt as though I’ve stuck out somehow, and not always in a way that’s been comfortable. I brought the yellow apple to school when everyone else brought red and green, never was very “cool” and then hated myself when I attempted to be. That feeling of being an outcast is lonely. It is somewhat damaging. And yet, in an odd way, there is also comfort in knowing that you are unlike “the others”. There is something nice about being lonely and different, because with that loneliness there is hope that you really are meant for something else that you can’t quite yet understand. I don’t know when it will happen—and that’s the part that causes me some insecurity at times. I feel passionate, but not exclusively in one field. I’m jealous of people who are, because they seem to have it easy. My passion is just slightly more vague—I’m passionate about life, as stupid and as trite as that may sound. I am passionate about people and about moments and about feeling total and complete despair at times and complete bliss at others. And I think I’m supposed to do something with all of that, I just don’t know what yet. So what do I do in the mean time, while I trust that it will all work out? I’ve dated boys and have fallen in love and have been rejected. I’ve attempted to climb huge, figurative mountains and have failed. I have done so many things that haven’t worked out thus far—but somehow I still have hope that at one point, it all will, and so I keep on picking myself up and putting myself out there, so that one day I feel whole. And then, and only then, will I maybe write something that isn’t a semi useless rant on my life.

All I have to say is:

I’m not very articulate, partially because I’m tired and took melatonin about 45 minutes ago and also maybe because I fell completely off the blogging band-wagon, but the above statement is fairly articulate as it is. So that’s that.

A Person to be Remembered:

I found out today that a girl I went to highschool with, Alice Hoffman, died of leukemia on Tuesday. She was only 18. Though I didn’t know her particularly well, the news shook me, because she was one of those characters that one meets and never forgets. The girl had such gusto– she had been battling leukemia since the age of 12, and whenever anything– leukemia, bullies, etc.– knocked her down, she not only never surrendered, but would also get “right back on” , an expression my mother might use when referring to falling off of a horse. She was wonderful–kind, funny, a breath of fresh air, really. But also sassy! I remember once (Alice was in a wheel-chair because of her illness), when someone said something that insulted her (I can’t remember who this person was or what they had said), she took her little wheel-chair joy-stick and sped off in the other direction, presumably, I thought, in upset retreat. But, in typical Alice fashion, she wasn’t speeding off in the other direction to run away–she was  speeding off in the other direction so that her wheel-chair, when she whipped it back around, would gain enough momentum to charge at this guy and do damage, which she effectively did after she ran over his foot. She was not someone to be messed with.

Alice’s Leukemia made her too weak sometimes to continue attending the school we both went to, which was a boarding highschool in Massachusetts–pretty far away from her house and family in Houston. Even I, a pretty average, healthy person, had a hard time dealing with the complications and issues that living thousands of miles away from your house and family at a young age entails. Alice never once gave up on returning, though, despite her health and her family, who I’m sure were hard to part with during the academic boarding year. Alice always came back, seamless in spirit, though evidently physically worn from her unfortunate circumstances.

Alice had a cheerful demeanor, which I always looked forward to when seeing her. She was given the same work load and expectations as every other student at the school, yet never submitted to the complaining and self-pittying that most of us (myself included) did. She was genuinely a person I looked up to and continue to look up to, for all of these reasons. If ever I feel that life has shafted me, which it will inevitably do, I will think of Alice and her relentless gusto for life and the beautiful smile she wore when delivering me a “Hey Lucy!” on a chilly winter morning, walking or wheeling to an 8 AM class.

Alice, I’m glad I knew you. You were a brave and beautiful person. Though you  yourself cannot, thank you for inspiring myself and others to live with a mentality influenced by your own. You may no longer be present in this place, but you will be remembered.


A list of things that really suck. (because I just got a ticket)

I just got pulled over on my own street. I’m clearly really annoyed. Do cops in downtown LA really not have bigger, badder fish to fry? Did I really just get a ticket for turning left in front of a car that was clearly far enough away from me for a collision to actually happen? GAHH!!! Worst of all, the cop seemed like he was going to let me off, and then he didn’t. I hate that. If they are going to ticket you, they might as well just play bad guy and not pretend like you have any hope of coming out of the shitty situation unscathed. Jerks… I mean, it’s actually amazing that I still have my drivers license to be completely honest, but I was seriously about 500 feet from my apartment building. dgsigreukgakeha (!) (!) (!)

So, to compliment my pissy mood, i’m going to make a list of things I really don’t like. I know this makes me a negative person and blah blah blah, but sometimes it happens.

1. (obviously) Cops that don’t have better things to do. Someone somewhere is getting shot.

2. Those eager ass students that ask the professor/TA if he/she is going to be collecting the assignment right as class is getting out… really not helping anyone out there.

3. White bath matts: because they get dirty NO MATTER WHAT.

4. Facebook videos. I used to be the most guilty person of this ever in highschool, but highschool is over, and people don’t care how much you love to look at yourself making weird faces and bobbing your head to music- it’s not funny, it’s just embarrassing.

5. The quote “Live, laugh, love”… super original. (If we’re friends and you have that somewhere on you wall at home or on facebook, I still like you, and I’m sorry that this makes me kind of a douche bag.) But really, let’s branch out on this one.

6. People who ask you what you got on the midterm you just got back, only to tell you that they got an ‘A’. It’s cool that you are taking this opportunity to brag. It’s also really discreet of you. Way to go champ.

7. Camera whores (even though I am admittedly guilty of this. It still really annoys me though.) (Attention to my mom: the term ‘camera whore’ does not imply nudity or sexual connotations. It just means that you’re always conveniently present whenever there is a camera out.)

8. Too much rice in burritos. I don’t know why I just really don’t like it.

9. Taking hipstamatic really seriously as a form of photography. It’s cheating. You can use it, but it doesn’t really count.

10. Sorority fines. Not dues, fines.

11. Getting your car impounded. Paying money to get back something you already owned is a great feeling.

12.  Small dogs. Sometimes they can be gems, but they are mostly just an irritating combination of hyperactive and stupid.

13. Andy Warhol poster pop-art. Again with the originality thing.

14.  People that wear sunglasses indoors. You don’t look cooler you just look like a moron.

15. Not knowing how to spell, unless your name is Annalee Leggett.

I can’t actually think of anything else. Sorry if this was rude.


Sometimes art isn’t pretty.

Yesterday, my friend Phil introduced me to the LA rap group “Odd Future” by way of their youtube music video “Yonkers” by Tyler the Creator. I posted the link to my facebook wall, and gathered a quick response that showed either appreciation or disgust for the video, and not really anything in between. One of the responses was from my mother, who thought it was disgusting (for obvious reasons that I don’t fault her for), and could not understand why her daughter would like such a video. Naturally, my mother’s opinion influences me tremendously even when I try to resist it, and so I inevitably got to thinking about why is was that I liked this video, and why it was that she didn’t. Maybe it’s a generational gap thing, or maybe it’s the hopefulness of youth (do I actually like this, or do I just want to like it because it’s “misunderstood”?)– I don’t exactly know, but what I realized was that art is not always–nor does it have to be–pretty.

My immediate and current reaction to the video both is and was intrigue. Granted, I am in film school, so anything that is of avant-garde fashion, plays with focal length and depth of field, is black&white and has high contrast lighting makes me excited and perhaps biased, so the aesthetics of the video immediately had me on the rapper’s good side. But I also particularly loved the theatrical nature this 20-year-old kid Tyler adds to his rapping performance. It’s fresh and there’s something poetic and emotionally provoking and identifiable about it. In yesterday’s LA times the rap group (which consists of six kids from LA, ranging from ages 16 to 23) was featured in an article in the entertainment section for their sudden powerful presence on the internet musicscape (like Die Antwoord, their videos went viral and now they are playing at Coachella). I think the article articulates perfectly the allure that I saw in Tyler:

Tyler doesn’t profess authenticity (“no one’s authentic”), but his lyrics have both a wounded honesty and deranged imagination (including sex fantasies with Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift and Goldilocks). His talent lies in his ability to fuse a strain of post-adolescent angst found in Holden Caulfield, Kurt Cobain and Ian Curtis, and lyrics rife with esoteric references and double-meaning: In one of the only rhyming couplets suitable for a family newspaper, he raps on “Yonkers,” “They say success is the best revenge/So I beat DeShay up with the stack of magazines I’m in/Oh, not again, another critic writin’ report/I’m stabbin’ any bloggin’ … hipster with a Pitchfork.”

My mother’s reaction, which was that the video and his lyrics were a big attention-seeking show of nothingness, is valid. I get what she’s talking about. She’s a woman who likes things that have positive or productive messages and/or soul searching provocations, and that’s good. That’s probably, in the long run, what is ultimately useful and worthwhile, and maybe I am playing the role of a hopeful and naiive “misunderstood” member of youth by appreciating this video. But there’s something likable about the video for me, and I don’t think that it’s flawed or contrived thinking on my part. I don’t think that art has to be pretty or have a purpose to be good– I guess that’s a very Dada mentality, which is ironic as I don’t usually particularly like Dada art. But I also think the current fascination with Tyler and the Odd Future and what I, too, found attractive about his style is the concept of what Tyler and the Odd Future represent, and that probably is a hopeful youth thing. They are entirely non-commercialized, and they certainly do not fit the rap star mold (puking and cockroaches and suicide are very un-50-cent). They are self-proclaimed outcasts that dislike conformity and have made their weird, outcast qualities a thing to be celebrated and owned–and this, to youth, is attractive (well, at least to some of us). It will be interesting to see if I still appreciate this kind of thing when I’m old.

I’m not going to Coachella this year, so I won’t be able to witness the unique style of these kids, but for any of you who are going and are going to watch them perform, let me know what your thoughts are/what they’re like live.

Also: Daily post challenge #2 of 30. Success. I’m proud.


Carpe-diem that $h!t

Exerting energy used to be so easy and now it isn’t. I tried to do the monkey bars the other day (fail) and couldn’t understand how in the name of god I was ever able to skip bars and go backwards. It was really hard and I realized right then and there that I had finally hit the physical point of no return–> i am not a child. Fuck.

That’s cool though, I mean… I like driving a car and no I don’t pay my own taxes yet and yeah I buy groceries and make weird and exotic dinners because I can/because I don’t have to worry about things like paying taxes (yet). Life is not bad. So then why do I insist on being a lazy fuck? I used to be able to run around and jump and scream for the damned pleasure of feeling those sensations. Now, the gym seems like a mean joke. Those people that get up every morning at 6 and go to the gym for an hour and then make breakfast and take showers and go to class or work looking and smelling like they just walked out of a magazine really bother me, because it confronts some deep anxiety that I have about my own laziness. Is that ultimately what this schedule-less, sleeping-in, class-missing, internet time-wasting thing is all about? Laziness? If so, how does one combat it?

When I try and become proactive about lifestyle changes, the productivity is there for about a week, and then I get bored and stop. Perhaps I just don’t like giving myself the opportunity to fail, and ultimately, I cut out success along with it. If I don’t go to class, it’s not really my fault for not succeeding– I’m sure i’m smart enough to do well, but if I “DGAF” (Don’t Give A Fuck) it, i’m somehow removed from the responsibility of ever having to succeed or fail.

Failure is scary. But not facing a challenge is, in a way, also failure. Carpe-deim that shit. Goethe said that boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.

A friend told me that the best way to break the habit of laziness is to force yourself to do something–anything, for 22 minutes at the same time every single day. I wish I could resolve to do that right now but I’m honestly scared of the challenge.

But: fuck it and attack (sorry for the profanities, if my mother or any of her friends are reading this, please excuse.)  If I can stick it out and do something (blog? Exercise (ha)) for a month every day, then basically anyone can do anything. This is coming from a person who is too lazy to floss her teeth every other day and thinks it’s a big deal when she does (sorry if that’s gross…)

SO: Daily blog post #1 of  30.

Posting this scares me.