A BRAIN LIKE STALE BREAD

JOURNAL ENTRY – STALE BREAD

I wake up after hours, almost a day, of sleeping and roll from my bed to the chair in my living room. I thought dismantling my TV would keep me from falling into a tvpression but now I only watch my one DVD over and over and over to the point that I hope I’ll come to be over it and get my ass up and out of my apartment. But I don’t. I continue to watch it, and am thankful to have something to watch. My brain is stale bread but not hard. It’s just stale, sitting there on the shelf of my head and flat as a pancake. I have no thoughts, no words, no passion, nothing. I thank God I have no phone calls to return because it gives me a panic attack to have to check my messages to hear someone on the other end wanting to know where I am, what I’ve been “up to.” And I can’t say absolutely nothing because they know. The people left holding onto an absent friend know about me and would think things about my state of mind. I don’t want to burden anyone with my sterile world, but maybe that’s a lie. I don’t want the burden of people knowing and having them think about it, or try and talk to me about it, because no one has any idea what my world is here stuck in my hollow apartment where the only thing keeping me cognate of some relationship to life is my cat. I wish I could just cry and let it all out so I can be done with this. But I can’t. It’s worse. I feel nothing but am sure what with all the personal pressure to stay on top of my mental state, go running, be productive (whatever the hell that means at this point) which is void is a deep internal long cry that has no end. I went to Santa Barbara to the premiere of my friend’s film and drove home with light on my cheeks. I wish I knew what was that thing that made me get up and go. I know i'm scared for myself and the myriad of days and days going by with nothing other than some cheese and a screen. Even preparing my plate of cheese and crackers is doing something that makes me feel alive. So it would be nice to capture whatever made me get in my car and drive in a jar and breath into it when I am scared again. How does fear lead to strength I’ll never know. I was anxious when I was trying to get out of the city mostly because I slept 14 hours and was 6 hours behind my attempt of a schedule. I only spent one night out of the city and actually had someone say I was glowing when I went to my usual local market to get some more cheese. Just that little accomplishment brought some life back into my face.

MARIJUANA WHAT....

We baked it, smoked it, boiled it on the stove with butter and poured it onto toast for breakfast. Evan. Simply put, he was hot. I could enter his suite filled with five other roommates, and swim through the haze of bud to find him ripping a bong hit like we were at PCU. What started as a few joints here and there, turned into a daily feast for me to calm the anxious panic of my brain. Plus, there was always the potential that Evan would hook up with me. I would enter the boys’ suite and everyone would chant “Give her her medicine.” They thought I had way too much energy and couldn’t handle my excessive enthusiasm. Bong hits rolled to giant blunts which resulted in munchies which ended in pot brownies. I was a pothead. But it was okay because I never bought it. These guys grew it right there in the closets.
Ecstasy, pot, Valium, booze…there were nights I lost the connection between my body and mind and thought to myself, this is it. I have intoxicated myself with enough escapes and now it is time. I closed my eyes and prayed to God I would return from the complete lost of mind and body. But the world was blank, and I was sure God was pissed.
“One one thousand. Two two thousand. Three three thousand.” Ok, I can still count even though I can’t stand up, or even cry, but I can count. I wanted to die without realizing I was choosing to do so.

Dog Food For Breakfast

I had dog food this morning in the pantry of my best friends nutri system house. I opened the cabinet and was looking for a dying animal bleeding in the seam so I could rough myself up to it, and was faced with pockets of nutri system foods and as I wandered in the shelves picked up a bag of “turkey jerks” which for any person sitting on a bus, or photocopying something to send would do, just starting munching on the turkey jerky star crafted food, and keep chewing for they were distracted. Why? Cause they didn’t see anything to eat or any food to indulge in, so at that moment, took a left hand approach to it, and only then, do they realize they are chewing on dog treats. SICK.

And then sealed the bag up for the next person, dog, I mean.

Pain without Plot

At least when you have pain you know it. You know why. You feel it ripe in the pores because you were dumped or told your mothers dying from altmezeirs. But when you don’t have a frame of reference for pain, a reason for it, it sucks. It makes the pain that more difficult because you don’t have a place to point to, or make known. Pain without plot is the worse pain of all.

CAN I SEE YOUR BUSH - SEXUAL HARASSMENT FOR BREAKFAST

The Agency Continued...

Chip, a partner, flew into work coked out of his hairy chest. He pulled up his shirt, pounded on his torso and demanded me to feel his rocks.
"Ah, no thanks Chip, I'm good."
I stared straight at my computer screen, pretending to type an email. He hurried off only to return moments later.
"Can i see your bush?"
"Ah....no."
The fun thing is it didn't even phase me. I continued to sit there "working" and felt lucky that I wasn't the mailroom girl that was making copies last week when another partner came from behind and rubbed his dirty dick up her skirt.

Now, THAT i would not be able to swallow. Verbal sayings is one thing, physical grinding on an ass is another.

THE AGENCY - AN ASSISTANT ON A DESK - BEVERLY HILLS

The Agency - In Beverly HIlls, CA.
I applied to all the agencies in town. Took a few interviews and landed myself on an agents desk at a small boutique for television writers and directors. And the HELL begins.
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”…..you wonder what an agent does all day???…….they play phone tag all over town. When you live and die on a phone call you got problems and let me tell you..AGENTS HAVE PROBLEMS. Their problem begins and ends with one word: boredom. An agent needs to work really hard during staffing season (Feb-May) to get their clients jobs and then, once their clients are staffed (hopefully) at that point they sit on their ass the rest of the year getting 10% of their clients hard work every time they stepped for in an office. It’s not a bad life if you don’t mind being bored or licking assholes to get your clients on a show. The partners of the agency I worked for basically rolled into work at 11 am, read the trades, then jetted out of dodge at 1pm. There is a difference between working in a small agency versus a large agency. It is much easier to work toward a millionaire lifestyle in a smaller agency because you spend less time watching your back. At a larger agency like ICM, CAA, William Morris etc…..you spend most of your time picking off other people’s clients, not only from other agencies, but internally as well. But don’t get me wrong. Bad behavior happens in all agencies whether you are the big cheese or not. Agents will suck dicks and lick tits regardless.
I lasted an entire year on that desk. I cried. I swallowed my pride. There was lots of blood, sweat and tears and similar psychological damages done like seen in movies like ‘Swimming with Sharks’. My boss was a first class idiot with several communication problems. Knowing I wanted to be a writer the day he hired me, he stated, “I will not read any of your material for at least one year.” That was a good way to keep me on the desk since after all his previous assistants only lasted a few weeks before quitting. I was ready to hold out for six months. Six months dragged by and I got the courage to ask him to read my material. I handed him my 0600 to take home for the weekend. I found it later the following week in his trashcan with a long dark coffee stain on the back. He never read it. He never even opened the cover but discarded it along with his coffee. The best part is watching a lying swine that you hear lie on the phone all day long try to lie to your face.
“Did you get a chance to read my script?”
“I’ve been really busy. Do you have another copy of it?
“Why?”
“I left it at home.”
I pulled it out of his trash and tossed it on his desk.
“What’s wrong with this copy?”
He cracked a smile like I was supposed to find his lying bullshit face funny. I snatched up the script and toss it back in the trash.
“Forget it.”
He picked it up as if he really cared. I grabbed it and took it away and he still pretended to care.
“Hey, I’ll read it just not now.”
“FORGET IT!”
Why the fuck would I let some asshole idiot read my work. I felt better knowing that idiots like my boss lose out on potential scripts all the time cause they are too fuckin lazy and the followers of the town. Not innovators, FOLLOWERS.
When your boss is an idiot and he knows that you are smarter than he’ll ever be, that’s never good; your job only gets more difficult. And I am not talking about dealing with the BS that comes along with head cases that are insecure about their intelligence and have an ego the size of Manhattan. I am talking about how much more work you potentially make for yourself. A typical email from my boss would read as follows:

Re: Sub

As discsdfsdf……enclsoesadfdfds

Stevenson CURB
Blurb
McKinney SEX
Blsursdfsd………

I look..sdfsdfsdf.

Yes, I can read hieroglyphics along with your room temperature mind. That bowl full of gibberish translates into the following cover letter prepared by me.

Dear Lisa,

As discussed, enclosed please find material from the following writers:

John Stevenson Spec, CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM
John was a story editor on BERNIE MAC. He is bright, funny and a very hard worker.

Debbie McKinney Spec, SEX AND THE CITY
Debbie was a staff writer on THE FAMILY GUY. Additionally, she recently sold a feature to Miramax called CLUBBER.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Best regards,

ASSHOLE

I learned the hard way how not to step on tiny balls couples with a shriveled dick. If you find outright wrong plain English AKA serious grammatical errors along with severe typos…don’t “suggest” or point out anything. Stay low and drive hard. The job is to make your boss look good. I was tired of making him look good. I was tired of picking up the phone in my usual deep voice and hearing his girlfriend scream “Don’t answer my baby’s phone in that sexy voice!!” No joke. I was tired of retrieving twenty messages in the morning like this: “Erica….ah…..put on the phone sheet that I want to call…..God I can’t remember.” CLICK. Next message: “I want to call……” CLICK Next message: “Now I remember, I want to call Jordan Kingston at the WB and……” CLICK. Next, message: I remember now, Jordan Levin at the WB (I got that already asshole) and who is the name of that girl I went to drinks with a few weeks ago…Jamie, Lisa or something…I don’t know. Try and track her down for me. I lost her number. CLICK Next message: “And, I forgot to tell you please clean up my desk. It’s gotten kinda messy these past few days.” CLICK. And that is considered a good message day. Need I say more?

I HAVE NO PENS - Diaries of a server in a 5 star with ZERO experience

CHAPTER: THE INTERVIEW
It was quite, a more upscale place. A pretty blond hostess with a sharp bob and yellow eye shadow perfectly lining her eyes greeted me.
"Hi."
"Hi. Can I drop off my resume for any positions that you may have for a server?" Before I could drop my fake resume on the table she was on the phone ringing someone.
"Would you take a seat a moment, I'll be right back." I took a seat at the bar as YELLOW disappeared down a staircase. I felt uncomfortable and didn't understand what I was waiting for. She climbed back onto the wood floors and handed me a stack of white paper.
"Fill this out and our manager will speak with you after." I took the stapled papers and walked to the back of the restaurant. I sat down and took a look at the papers.

CHAPTER: THE TEST TAKE ONE
I flipped through the ten pages of questions ranging from: list five scotches, vodkas, gins, what is tartar, how much are you familiar with micros, if you get seated with three tables at once what do you do. I started to fill out the test and found myself writing down "Not sure," to a majority of the questions. At one point I made a long bracket down the side of an entire page and wrote "not sure" on the side. I didn't really give a shit. I had a job across the street at Dos and really didn't like the music in this joint anyway.
I handed the test to YELLOW and she picked up the phone again.
"Our manager is on her way up to meet you." At the time I wasn't keen enough to smell the obvious desperation of the place. And then, manager appeared.
She was a tall blonde woman who needed no make-up and carried herself like a model. She had an accent that made her seem sophisticated. Her eyes were droopy and a sea of confusion, desperation, and stressed covered in numbness. I thought it was a simple difference in countries, people around the world were different than me, than Americans. She flipped through the test that I obviously bombed and looked straight into my face and said, "When can you start."

CHAPTER: DOS CAMINOS
It was physically ridiculous. I had to run down stairs, up and down, and up and down, carrying that damn guac held in containers that weighed eight pounds. Every server had shit on their uniform and was an actor, actor, actor. There was only one artist and he was cool. I finished training a lunch there and wanted my tips.
"Trainees don't get tips. You make $5.15 an hour." I had never made minimum wage in my life. However, I was ready to party.

CHAPTER: THE DECISION
I was on my final training and in the kitchen with the chef. She was a fat woman who had zero concern about her hair or face. She too had shit all over her uniform but she's a chef so that's allowed. However, she was behind the metal wall that separated the mexicans from the others. It was the border separating Mexico from the California. Those banTrooper hair wearing hard working guys were the backbone of the place. Even the dishwasher was stuffed in the corner with blue dishwashing gloves up to his armpits. I don't know if he could speak for I never heard him talk. When there was a fuck up and food was left for anyone to graze like it was against the rules (like the salad bar in Whole Foods,) he was left sinking in the dirty plates and glasses and shit of all the meaning of the restaurant: food. I managed to be one the line, trying to learn all the ingredients in the five tacos they offered and there was a plate before me for me to try. I took it away, walked over to the dishwasher, and handed him the plate. His eyes starred back at me like I was the first human being he'd ever met. Probably the first human being to befriend him in the shit-hole He took the plate and placed it behind him. It sat there for over an hour while he managed the hose the avalanche of plates up to his chest. Only after a break from the rush did he get a chance to eat his tacos. Three tacos, four hours later, cold and soggy and better every bite.

CHAPTER: THE QUIT
After training the seven shifts that I was put out in the fields as a slave for little pay, I decided I had a decision to make. J or Dos. The decision seemed easy for me. Was I going to bus my own tables, run down wet stairs to an inevitable death at the bottom of the stairs, or posh it out across the street. I was scheduled to start work that next week as a server and left my apron in the office off to the side to not stir any rumors and walked home. I picked J. I was confident in my decision and ready to put all I had into the job.

CHAPTER: CAMP WIDDLETON
Back at the camp, Trooper and I were having a blast. We had hit the town and had more stories than the several months in LA. That night I came across a Dry Humper and the Hugger met up with Trooper. Trooper had recently met a Boston College kid and was on fault line. THE HUGGER working in finance and lived in Brooklyn. After a week of knowing her he was immediately smitten, but who can not see the golden glow ricocheting off her thick hair and beautiful blue eyes. She was not used to guys pining over her. She stuck to the assholes and didn't quite know how to deal with being treated like a Goddess. She was talking with him when the HUMMER arrived.
I ended up walking the HUMMPER home only to be invited up to his place. I hadn't had sex in about a year and was not ready to even make-out with a guy. And of course I did. He tonsil dove into my mouth and I had to put the drawbridge to the castle door up. My teeth were a shield to his sick tongue.
"Um, let me show you how to kiss."
He was taken aback and I layed down the line.
"Don't want to have sex or anything, let's just go to sleep." The HUMMPER was a pretty boy from Texas. He had zero body fat and felt like a brick in bed. He started hi-cupping which was great because it got me out of kissing with his fifth grade lips. I had never had a guy hiccup in my mouth and was worried that I would be "that girl" that a guy wakes up to not knowing how or what or why they are there.
The next morning he dry humped me. I sat there not knowing what to do. I was wearing his boxer shorts and not sure where this was going or even what to do because I had never been a fire hydrant for a dog pumping himself to get off. He stopped and all of a sudden there was motionlessness and more confusion. Did he cum? What do I do? He got up a few minutes later and said he would get me a new pair of boxers. It was at that point I felt his wet cum slide down my leg and I was more horrified than the dry hump. I thought the whole reason for a "dry" hump was to maintain the desert. He fell off the bed trying to reach for a fresh pair but at least he wasn't hi-cupping in my mouth anymore.
After walking by his roommate watching the tube, I busted out of his apartment onto the Saturday sun and got a cab. There are times to call a cab and the rest to be frugal. I walked into CAMP WHITTELTON and Trooper was sitting on the bunk-bed with her fan on, watching TV, and eating her microwave M&M's.
"Oh my God."
"What happened."
"I don't know how to say this."
"What?" She continued to munch on her M&M's polishing off the hand. She got up, marched to the kitchen and pulled out her giant size M&M Dark Chocolate bag and set them on a paper towel to be micro-waved.
"I was dry humped."
She stared at the timer waiting for them to finish frying.
"OMG."
"No, Trooper. I WAS DRY HUMPED."
The microwave beeped and she reached for her stack of communion. She marched back to the bottom bunk and sat down, ready to continue.
"Wow."
"So what happened with the HUGGER?"
"I don't know, we went back to his place and watched a movie."
"And."
"And he kept staring at me."
"What do you mean?"
"He were watching a movie and he stared at me."
"What else?"
"He said his heart was racing and he didn't know what to do." I laughed knowing she was not kidding nor did she know what the fuck.
"And..."
"And he put my hand on my heart."
"Um. Ok."
"Then when I left, he blew me a kiss at the subway. Who does that? It's like out of the 40's."
"Dad used to do that."
She tossed back a few more M&M's and grabbed her frozen bottled water that she's been defrosting the past hour and took a quick chug.
"Yeah. I don't know about this kid."
And it might be the first time she was with someone nice.

THE ROADRUNNER
His ass was so wound up that he didn't have to flex it in his tight blue pants, because those buttocks were flexed without a squeeze from his muscles. That's the kind of perfectionist you can only read by two things: ass and hair. His hair was blond, tight shaved against his head, with a tiny Mohawk like a dinosaur bump on his head (not really a Mohawk by definition, for he still had hair on the rest of his head) that ended with a flip of short bangs that shot down is face across his eyebrow, making a new style for men that wanted bangs, and a Mohawk, and a head full of hair. It's nothing anyone can describe or has ever seen, in their life. It's a new thing that must be cut by either a masterful mind or my Chad himself every morning before work. Once you start clipping those hairs that seem to hit against that hawk, you can't stop or get enough so end up with a meticulous mess that makes no since but...still looks good, and fits his personality.
He was a cross between a peacock and tweety bird. He fluttered around the restaurant with a tight thin tie, slightly pulled down so he appears to breath while he bounces fiercely across the hard wood floors ready to rock and roll the scene and make sure his land is as perfect as that head of hair he sports like it's a crew cut and noting outside the norm. Because that's his restaurant attitude. It's flawless with absolutely no effort. And some people are like that, and don't have to do squats to get stone buttocks to punch through their pants, perfectly fitting the overall theme of easy perfection.
J appears to be easy perfection and I can't figure out how to enter a drink order or split a check or authorize a card or....make a glass of tap water IN THE RIGHT GLASS.
And I love him for it. There is nothing better than when we are in the “meetings on how address the 'specials' for the night appropriately' and he claps his hands like a school teacher in a fifth grade classroom to get everyones attention, and he bends over the table, to go over what he has gone over 474 times in his head, in his sleep, on the subway, when he eats free J coffee because i;I've never seen him touch the free bread, that you realize. This is not a guy who is a manager. He is not a bus boy. He is Chad.
Chad description

CHAPTER: FIRST DAY
Yes i spilled a whole glass of ice with dirty martini at the bottom of the glass all over her back and floor, crashing to the floor, ice spinning out onto the floor all over the surrounding tables. They left me a large tip.
The VG's were sat in my section and they smiled at my inability to know when to take the menu or how to take their order with a glass trey in my left hand. But at least they showed mercy.
It wasn't until the fat ladies sat down and watched me place their wine glasses down and deal with putting the tray inside my armpit and attempt to open the wine did i realize that i was not myself. I was more fucked up than the first day on any job i ever had that was a “regular job” as my mother asked about my “work.” I opened the wine and the cork chopped off from the top and I pretended everything was find. They didn't know. Everything was fine until
Wine tasting during “the meeting” is new to me since I drink wine, I don't taste it. Anyone can be asked to stand up and recite the ingredients in a dish. They called on one of my only companions in Team Nercy and she is flushed. She cheated on the test, like most i suppose and didn't know anything.
I didn't pass the test...had to take the first page over. But ripped out a 100% and made the chef, who didn't have a pen on him, take my fat red sharpie and circle that shit for everyone to see. What else can I do at this moment. I've already been sent home for not having buttons down my black gear. Then sent home a second time for getting a C on my menu test because I didn't know that there was flour, chili flakes, cumin, mustard seed and fennel seed in their bread basket with contains 5 breads. I brought it on. I goggled that shit and came back with Internet intenas and blasted out paragraphs that defined the simple words w in depth descriptions of the origin, the multifaceted parts of the plants or origins of sauces. No one would know what was ON. And so I handed the chef a sharpie to circle my 100% and plastered that shit in front of everyone, and dropped like silk “I'll see you later tonight.”
Bo-Ya....turned into a talk after my shift. After the negators spoke and ruled me out as a novice, idiotic lame ass piece of shit served on a shaky plater with a tutorial on wine opening on one table and a starter and dinner served at the same time on another table. Not to mention the machine, my biggest enemy, starring me down in the face with its boxes of words that lead you to more detailed boxes with wines that are spoken one way and for some reason written in the machine another way. What the fuck is any person supposed to do?.
I just don't appreciate
And poor Gene is a recovering alcoholic and has to sit through the wine tasting while the aroma simmers up in the air and I have to sit through a drop of wine when I want a freaking bottle already. Christ almighty, not sure what's worse, but at least it is a new thing for both of us: her not having any, and me having only a drop. Both a new experience that is different and foreign.
I did my side work. I know what side work is, I had a job when i was 15 on Pico Blvd. at Islands Restaurant and I hated every minute of it. Why do I think this is for me? Is temping that bad?? any job that is not your job is shitty. It's shitty shit crap on a stick with coated asshole. The manager asked me to come up with a word to describe the dessert to sell to the customers, (after the entire table during the “knowledge tester meeting of face packing, grab that plate with no regard to the skinny bitches that act like they own it, when really you are the real woman ready to wolf that shit down” I was the last silent voice and upon the query of description I didn't need to think. “It's coated in chocolate.” Of course any fat kid would know how to describe a cheesecake that is dipped in chocolate. Make that shit coated like you can't even get to the cheesecake without drilling your teeth into the soft deep layer of coated chocolate. Thank God the M liked it and the chef, who is so hot, sort of mean, that I like it, were on board with my diction for the savory plump hockey puck.
And I am told Chad is the nicest of all the managers. GREAT. But at least now that I am demoted and have to train another day, with someone big brothering me over my shoulder all night, and “we;ll see about the weekend” a la you might not be able to handle the brunch or anything else in this J next door world, I can walk in there with the 'bring it' attitude. It's funny how you can be abused and used in the entertainment and build a arsenal of defense mechanisms that make you a rock star and the moment you are in a restaurant and out of that realm, which is nothing like what I've been through, I crumble at the 21 year old asshole that walks around like she is the shit, hunched back and lassie fair attitude, she probably doesn't know what lassie fare means for Christ Christ sake and I'm tapping at the machine hitting void every 3 seconds and am a victim? Strange. It's all strange. Playing pretend server is harder than working through the ranks of entertainment until you are thrown out of a building and have to implement your own life preserver that is entrepreneurial and bold. Not this. This is a backward dance move when you are a dance my nature.

SIDE-WORK INSERT – KAITLAN
She checked all the ketchup's and pulled the ones down from the back of the shelf. They were allllll half full.
“you have to marry all the ketchup's.”
“oh.”
“did no one show you that?”
“well it's obvious that NO ONE has done this for weeks because there are over a dozen ketchup's that have not been fixed so, yes i saw them, and no I didn't do them.”
I was done with training, done with being everyone's slave and done wit this bitch that got me a shift away from being fired, telling me what to do.
Maybe it was that moment when

INSERT
What did you say?
About Jeffrey being cute and they two on one hate war for no reasons. Because I'm tall, or beautiful..i though skinny bitches always liked heavier chicks off the bat. Obviously height makes a difference. And i suppose when i trained with the K-Shit and couldn't hear her talk two feet below, it didn't help to bend down low, face to face, making it a need so I could hear, it didn't help my cause. And now i was her ketchup loving bitch, in charge of every fuckin ketchup in the joint to marry. When it was her last day, and my first shift. So help her God in her next day.

DAY 2 - DEMOTION
I was the first to work and the first to start setting up the tables for dinner. I did all my side work and decided I needed to train with Cat, the only nice and helpful server in the joint. I wondered downstairs to find Chad. I knocked on the forbidden office and stepped on the threshold. Chad was sitting at the computer with his back to me.
"Hey, Chad." I felt like I was 22 years old again working on a desk at the agency afraid to answer the phone for fear that my voice wasn't good enough or I would be reprimanded for going to the bathroom to take a piss. I continued.
"Can I shadow Cat tonight?"
He popped his head up and started at me through his vanity mirror in front of his computer and bounced his head up and down nodding a yes to me a mile a minute.
NOT. I guess I wasn't supposed to ask for a favor or else you get stuck with the bulldozing truck in a black cape. A devilish punishment for a simple request.
pre game warmup table meeting; JEFFREY the newest member soon to be recruited to join the Alliance. Team Nercy. Describe suspenders. NICOLE (describe) chad hands out 5 page test on details bout the restaurant; explain JEFFREY, suspenders. I call him a cutie and the mean girls strike. "What did you say." Was i talking to you at the tip of my tongue turns into ah...i said he's a cutie. Oh so you like black guys? Looking across the table to Gene confused.
Back on the training trail. Dark Vader is my mentor. She is an ugly Elvira, with thick black eye liner that circles her eyes. She looks like she had to black eyes with a horse tail that starts at the top of her head and rolls down her back to her wide load ass. Tame that shit please. I'm supposed to work and have her shadow me, but that doesn't happen. At least not initially. I walk to the fist table to greet the guests and am asked about the hardest, most detailed option on the menu. The veil. I struggled to reach by in my head for the description that i memorized for the test, literally a day ago and had nothing. I turned to DV for help and she stared back at me with a blank face. I tried my best to salvage the situation and started to describe the wrong item. Some other beef, meat, thing on the menu and DV pushes me aside to provide her expertise on the meat. After that it was over. I followed her back to the machine and as I watched her type it in she turned to me and turned my shoulders and said, "Don't look at the computer, it'll just confuse you. Go in the back and fold napkins. She told me to fold napkins in the back. I left the floor to fold her bag of napkins while she worked the tables.
The manager told the Vader to let me try some tables so I was back running after her trying to listen and learn. Then a clam back rumor starts to circulate from the kitchen. I thought the back was 86ed so took an order at a table and told a women we were out. i guess that's why they call it a rumor. There was clam backs and now the Vader run back to the table to usurp my only table left for the night and explain that I was wrong and that in fact they did have a clam back.
Mexican help hiding behind the polo shirts in the kitchen. Down in the dungeon making pasta dumpling, cookies and chicken broth.
Tina turmoil. Are you eating something. Pointing at my mouth after I stuffed a piece of bread in my face, my mouth too dry to swallow or hide the fact that it was bread. It's not gum that you can swallow. . Bread is the only thing we are allowed to much on while working. She stared at my mouth an inch away from my face. I didn't have to open it because my answering her 'yes' showed the white mushy mess gagging my mouth.
Gay grabber at the bar.
Walk by Tina with knives facing out. The biggest no no you learn as a kid.
DV hot milk explosion down my express pants into my favorite loafers. Trying to whip the avalanche without drawing attention to the burgundy, not black, shoes that I sport. No apology, just a command like it's water. "Just grab a napkin with some hot water and rub it down. It'll come off." What about my scalding skim bitch. Of course. I have to ask where the hot water is (in between the coffee dim wat.)
In the closet the fight hurts more than the release. Walking out flashes. Pride; integrity; confusion war. Making friends with the other newbe. Her quote from Cervantes about failure being to picking yourself up when you are at your lowest." I realized that no one was the boss of me and it is time to walk hard. I formed the Alliance and they were my support group. It had to be on soon or else tamping would get a bang on the door.

BRUNCH - DAY 5
Get there first and start my side work. I take the Noxon rag outside to whip down the door handle and find A a couple yards away sucking down a cigarette. He didn't have to say anything. His black rocks sucked into this face said it all.
Stone faces at the table for the meeting. the energy was so low it penetrated the entire group. Name everyone there and their face (A, skinny jeans, matt, me) SKINNY JEANS (describe) is face; I'm considering sleeping on the toilet; I suggest the back room (all dialogue); that's a great idea. Mentions that he wants to do an errand. I'll do it and go sleep somewhere. CAT the only happy one to be there. "Everyone looks very unhappy to be here." Cat "Im happy to be here" And she was. Jeff, " You're the only one." I let out a laugh and Jeff asks me what's wrong. Jeff, "What are you laughing about?" Now i am not even allowed to laugh. We start the QUIZ and Jeff (BALDY) pins SKinny Jeans to the wall and he knows nothing and really doesn't care. Jeff gives up and asks Cat to take over and she bubbles out the descriptions. I stand up and walk two feet away from the table to grab a pen and paper to take notes and Jeff barks at me, "Where are you going." I wanted to say I'm going home. But instead tried not to look sarcastic and said, "I'm getting a pen and paper." FUCK-FACE. Then the SLUG, SLOUCHY, SUPER ANNOYING DEPLETED Nicole saunters just as the meeting is about to adjourn and slouches next to Jeff. "Hey." In her I'm tired and whatever about missing the whole set up that all of us endured for an hour prior to the meeting from hell. And Jeff turns to her and welcomes her, "Hi." WHAT! I was so confused. A told me later that she is always late and manages to be the first one released from the floor. I was appalled and sort of happy I had more ammunition and more of a reason to find her pointless.
Getting ready downstairs by the closet. A puts on his apron, "It's like we're preparing for war. Putting on our amour. Key, pens, notebooks." He shows me his bracelet. It was a black leather bracelet with something written in LAtin.
"Last night was my last night at my other job. It was so sad." He holds out his bracelet and re-sights, "Go forth in life with courage." I don't know why I laughed but I did.
"What? It was sad."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"It's Marc Jacobs." He admired his bandage of courage. We walked up the stairs to find a line had formed outside and was pouring down the sidewalk. All the servers stood in a line, ready for war.
Jeff, "Everyone ready."
No one said anything. There was no words to describe the inevitable madness that would barrel us over like a tidal wave. The doors opened.

CHAPTER: THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
A cockroach raced across the wall and I pointed to it not able to kill it. PENUT, my runner, squashed it with the check books and crunched it in between them. He laughed as he left the roach there favor some sad server to find when they pulled out the book. It was our little secret. Peanut was a four foot something mexican that had a crush on my that borderline on uncomfortable. We didn't make the best team because I could never see him. I would be in a hurry to race to the machine and put an order in "right away" and would bang into him because i couldn't see him with his arm of plates. He only went up to my stomach so it was a rough start for us.
Bartender Brian asking me about plugging the watermelon lemonade. "It's the only thing I know how to find in the machine.
Tina's coffee drink blocking all the water glasses that we needed every two minutes.
Tina's ketchup run and Skinny Jeans eyes light up. I turn to skinny jeans and tell him this is his chance and he said that's hilarious.
I knew we were short on ketchup from the night before when i was in charge of marrying the ketchup's. Story about how earlier that week the bitch said i had to marry all of them and i said it looks like no one has done that in weeks. And she looked at me like no, you have to do it. I informed people that we were low on ketchup but of course no one was going to listen to me. It made me happy to be an I told you so.
My section is in the very back of the restaurant and I have the least amount of tables which was fine by me.
Watering tables. Walking around with a pitcher so I looks like I am always doing something when my tables are taken care of. The Vader bitching to me about watering her tables because she wants them to lease so she can turn over and over tables and pull in the Benjamin's. That doesn't stop me but makes me put a smile on that spreads across my face because I know there are little things I can do to get back at the enemy.
Tina tells me she is comping my big 5 top because a customer found a spot of blood on a napkin. I took that as a perfect opportunity to tell her about the roach. "Did anyone see it." Her face is in a frenzy. Ah....yeah. "Who saw it." "I'm not sure but.." And I gave her the perfect I don't know face but people know and she walked off.
Needing to wash hands and found a sink in the back that had sope on top. Found out later that beneath the suds was the dirtiest germs of all. The silverware bin from the tables. Jesus Almighty Christ.
Show how Tina has no pens ever and keeps asking for my pens till I finally had to lie to her when I was down to one pen and she remarked, "you should always have pens."
A, "It's only one o'clock."
Coffee pour foul. Couldn't figure out how to make it pout and by now knew that A was the only person I could trust with restaurant stupidity queries.
I had one, ONE, nice table of fat black women I could swear I recognized one of the woman and explored finding out.
"You seen very familiar to me, do I know you from somewhere?"
Her friend sitting beside her with balloon breasts cracked a laugh, "Not unless you've been arrested." I paused for a second then said to myself, what the heck, I was down the road to being fired anyway, and, up to this point, unfortunately had also been afraid of being myself. I decided to bust out the guns.
"As a matter of fact I have." I couldn't tell if they were surprised, confused, thought I was joking or what.
"Where?"
"In Los Angeles, I got a DUI, and spent a night in jail, and then got caught driving with a suspended license."
"Really."
"Yup. I had to ride a bus for a year, walk, bike all over town, and it cost me nineteen thousand dollars." There were no words to follow this confession, and they women simply nod their head in silent understanding.
After I grabbed the check and opened the book to find that they actually wrote me a nice recommendation on the J insert that allowed comments to be made about the food, and the service. Turns out being myself wasn't such a disease for the restaurant after all.

CHAPTER: THE NEW GUY
He was Jay in Silent Bob Strikes again. Sporting a thick leather beaded necklace straight out of the 80s, he had zero facial expressions and looked like he was numb to the core. He shadowed the cool people, of course, and I never heard him say a single word. He appeared to know what being a server entailed so a couple of times I asked him for some help but he pretended not to hear me, or know what the heck I was saying. I thought that was a great tactic to avoid doing any work, (other than water tables) and played with the idea that he was mute.
My comment to the table "Thanks guys." Shit did I just call that lacoste pair "guys?" I prayed they didn't report me tot the lieutenant.
A pointing to the plate of bread spread out for the servers, "There's a fly on on the bread."
Fucking up cobb salad orders and forgetting the French toast. "What's in the fruit salad?" "Ah..I'm not sure, I'll be right back." I get the lowdown from Cat and go back to the table and rattle off the ingredients. "I'll just have the french toast." "Excellent choice, we are known for the french toast." Her snotty response, "I know. I've had it before." OoooK.
Oh and about the machine. No one told me that there is a green screen in the upper right corner that walks you through each step. Peace to that. The machine was finally not so bad and I now all I had to do was grow a nail so I could tap the right button since my fingers were to fat for the table and number pad.
Finally it was five and we could have a break for family meal. The cooks put out a plate of hamburger helper which was sitting on too of an inch of grease. We all wolfed it down along with some French Toast which I have to admit was damn good.
I walked out to find A having his 500.987,970,000 cigarette and we walked to the bar to grab a drink. We crank called Gene on the way to tell her she wasn't on the schedule for next week. We got our beers and three hours later we were at some new club opening that is NYU friend was at. She had gone to Staples to copy the free drink tickets and was flushed with tickets for us to buy drinks for free. I got home at four, crashed on the futon, and was asleep before I could curse Oprah for that episode on bed mites in your pillow.

CHAPTER: THE HUGGER STRICKS AGAIN
Trooper was missing from camp. She had crossed the streams and was spending the night at the HUGGER'S. It was a new venture for her and I was proud to see her attempt to have her first boyfriend.
“So do you like him?” She had no answer.
“We’re having dinner with his parents this week.”
“Um.”
“It’s our third date and we are having dinner with his parents.” I didn’t know what to say and wanted to be positive.
“At least you get a free dinner.”
“Seriously.”
dinner with the parents after a couple weeks.
story here that involves highlights from relationship.

CHAPTER: MTV
I landed a production job from an old buddy I used to work with. I up and left my life as a Producer to start over and now I am a PA. But it's money, and money is my breath right now.

CHAPTER: DAY FOUR
There's a new guy. He is adorable. Big blue eyes, sweeping auburn hair, gay, and moved to NYC a week ago form Chicago. He told me I was his new best friend in New York because he knows no one. It made me very sad and thankful that Trooper is here and has been my divine salvation.

CHAPTER: THE BUS BOYS
They hate me. Even Peanut said something about not moving when he carried a trash can of ice over his head to the bar. Am I supposed to have eyes in the back of my head?
"Are you working tonight?" A bread bus bitch inquired.
"No."
"Thank God."
That was awesome, especially since it was in front of everyone. Gene and I were there ready to set up at 9:30 am. I walked in to find her pulling out a bench with her tiny hands. SPIDER MAN (Dan) walked in and plugged in his headphones to blast The Who throughout the restaurant. Slowly people trickled in. Tina made it just in time to rule the meeting. And just before we were about to start the meeting, SHITHEAD saunters in wearing clothes from the night before.
"Hey guys." And no one said anything. I was livid. T ignored it, as usual, and started the meeting.
"Gene, do you know what the brunch additions to the Saturday menu are?"
"Yes, there is french toast."
"Obviously."
"Ah...the J omelet."
"What's in the J Omelet?"
"Spinach.."
"No."
"Um...sausage."
"What kind of sausage?"
"Pork?"
"Can someone please tell Gene what's in the J Omelet?"
No one moved.
"Julian."
"He raised his face with a monotone response."
"Ah..."
He glanced through the menu and read the description. The front phone rang and T ran to get it. We waited until she got back and so addressed SKINNY JEANS again.
"What's in the Benedict Johnny?"
"Ah..."
The phone rang again. T quickly walked to the host desk and picked up the phone. She hung up and walked back to our table and mid way through the phone rang again.
"Does anyone have a cell phone on them?" I asked. SKINNY JEANS pulled out his forbidden to wear cell phone.
"Call J." SJ laughed and dialed the number. T picked up the other line and SK hung up. After a few hang ups she returned to the table.
"Alright guys, where were we." Thank God I wasn't put on the menu hot seat. I had zero tolerance for this shit. Not today at least.
Again I got the back section with the fewest tables. I got my first table and it was a person eating alone. I got my second table and it was a person eating alone. The cycled continued and I realized that T sat people there because she didn't think I could handle more than one person per table. One of the women eating alone sat there for twenty minutes pouring salt on her flat-bread and stuffing it in her mouth. T continued to ride my tail.
"Why hasn't she ordered yet?"
"I don't know. She wants to chill." And every ten minutes after that T asked why I was not taking her order. The crowd thickened and the watermelon lemonade juice was requested by a table for three guests. I walked up to the bar and forgot how to prepare the drinks.
"Hey, can you tell me how to prepare the watermelon lemonade?" DV stomped her shaker on the counter.
"You have to be kidding me, you should know this by now." Back in defeated mode I put my head down and she refused to tell me. I waited till SPIDERMAN came by and grabbed him.
"What do you need." Always to my rescue I walked me through it. I forgot how to close out cash checks and SPIDERMAN explained that only DV can do it at the bar. I dropped it off.
"You have to put all the bills facing the same way." She ranted. I made no face, just waited for my money.
Time went on and I realized that some of my tables were being pawned off on surrounding servers, but I didn't care. What was I going to do but serve single eaters at my three tables. The day soared on and, not only were my tables meager, I was experiencing the Asian invasion.
"I'll have the mushroom omelet." I put it in the machine and when the food came out she called me over.
"There's no mushroom in my omelet." I threw out her omelet and ran to the machine to see if I was at fault. I typed in my number and the mushroom popped up. Triumphal I walked to the kitchen.
"I ordered a mushroom omelet for table 23 and she said there was no mushroom."
"Let me see it." Hot Chef stood waiting. I stood there. "You threw it away."
"Yeah, but I can get it out of the trash."
"Forget it." The busboys frowned on me and T stormed over.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I took care of it. Everything's ok."
"Don't ever tell me it's ok." She barked in my face. I felt like I was being shitted on my one of my old Executive Producer bosses, or when I was an assistant in the agency and told not to ever correct anyone or "talk back." I guess saying anything outside of "Can you turn around so I can kiss your ass" was considered talking back. Then the Asian table had a declined card.
"Hey T, stable 28's card was declined. Should I tell them or are you supposed to handle it?"
"You do it, but don't say it's 'declined.'" Duh. Then a table grabbed me and asked me a question. Before I could answer MOLE grabbed me by the back of my shirt and pulled me aside.
"I'll take care of it." T appears again.
"Did table 30 not want water?" Thank God I was holding my secret weapon, the water pitcher.
"I'm getting it right now." I raced to the bar station and grabber water glasses. I slammed them into the ice bin and felt someone standing over me. PONYTAIL, the second to the chief bus boy stood over me. He thrusted a ice scooper in my face.
"Use this to get water."
"Yeah, I know. I was in a hurry."
"Only use this." I do speak English you know. Hell was almost over and I tracked down Nicole so she could check my sidework and sign me out.
"Hey Nicole, I am done."
"Drop this off at 40." She handed me a trey of expresso and I did as I was told.
"Here you go." I chatted with table 40 about photography, and my hair. Back at the hutch SHITHEAD stood there.
"It's funny how you always seem to end up talking with my tables." I couldn't tell if she was making an observation or was annoyed.
"I'm done with my side work."
"What did you have?" I pulled out the sheet and as usual, she ran through things with a dental floss.
"You need to grab more sugar off the tables, so you should be here for another 20 minutes and then you can go." This coming from the SHITHEAD who has NEVER been to work on time since day one.
I was the last one to fill out my tip sheet and went downstairs. ENCINO was eating and seemed happy to see me, despite that fact that A overheard her asking if I still worked here the day before.
"How much did you make?" She pried.
"I'm not sure." And I wasn't.
"What section did you have?"
"Tables 29-32."
"They call that the Dumb Girl section."
And I walked home.

INSERTS FOR ASIAN INVASION
She grabbed my arm and pulled me down to her tiny level.
"Can I get a menu?" The last time I helped with a table query I was swallowed by the territorial vulture and pulled away worse than the asian invasion before me.
"One sec." I grabbed a menu in the hope that no one would see me "helping." I handed it to twig arms and she the weight of the menu made her drop it on her mimosa and it streamed across the table. I darted off of the board floor and ran for the hills.

CHAPTER: NAMELESS
Trooper didn't come home last night again. I walked into the Camp and she was standing in her undies with a large water in her hands.
"Hi." Her smile was a pure give away.
"I don't even know his name."
"Of course you don't." It was all very funny to her.
"Do you realize that I couldn't sleep last night because I couldn't decide if I should move upstairs or stay in my bed?"
"I woke up and didn't know where I was or why I took off my contacts and he took me to brunch and I couldn't see."
"What about the HUGGER?"
"I don't know." And I had heard this for about four months and it all boiled down to this: I don't know, yes, no, I don't know, I might, sort of, maybe, not sure, let's see, probably. It had become this vicious cycle of ambiguity that was followed with the Irish guilt that dove your conscience back in the cycle of sure, ok, then I don't know.
"You know Trooper, ambiguity, and rejection then the hope ferris wheel is fine in grammar school but not so much now." I saddened me to watch her face drop. What did I know. I was a no one on the dating scene, a barfed up aftermath of a rope of bad sudo relationships that ended in a hang up from a guy I loved with nothing. Nothing after, at all.
"I really hate my life." She was unemployed and had me squatting at her narrow pad, and was leaping from bed to bed. But I think she was enjoying her twenties. And to think that the night before I knew what would unfold.
"Tons of men, nobody talkin' 2 early I'm thinkin'. 11 am
And I give her twenty minutes and then...
Seriously, too early..guys have no cajonas till 1 am, this I know. 11:01 am
And finally.
People bore me. 11:10 am
The next message was at 7:13 am the next morning: "Where am I."
He was NAMELESS and 22 and RUBIC CUBE (because he was that socially awkward) but we couldn't come up with a word for it. He was an IT.
Pre meeting:
The pre shift meeting was about to start. The cooks put out the food and the TUBBY BITCH grabs a plate and forms a mountain of sausage eggs topped off with a snow peak of Heinz which quickly drippled down the stack from the weight of the blob. Before anyone else got their good, the TB started wolfing down mount everest. Gene and I grab a seat with our meager plate of food so as to make sure there was enough for the rest.
"So what time do we get out of here?"
"Usually between five and six." His eyes bulged out of his head. He stuffed more eggs in his mouth.
"No way."
"Way." I replied.
"Fuck that, I'm training and am not staying that long for no money." He didn't get the slavery ritual for newbes.
"When I was training, I was here till the end, it sucked. Plus you have to do all the side work which gets like Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest. " Gene burst out laughing. She couldn't control herself
"What?" I was curious.
"It's just funny because it's the truth." The TB couldn't handle it, he stared down at his empty plate, stood up and tubbied his way back to the food.
The meeting started and Jeff sat down with a big bowl of food. The chef walked over with a bowl of fresh fries.
"Try these out." Jeff grabbed a handful of Hot Chef's bowl of fries and set the remainder on the table. I could feel the heat coming from the TB's eyes as his engine fired up as he got ready for the plunge. SJ took a few. giving TB a green light to race his hand into the bowl before anyone else could steal the prize. I watched as his claw spun out like a spiders web and grasped a heap of fries, released, and grabbed a bigger handful of fresh fries, then slowly dangeled them over the bowl to make sure he got the rest, and tossed them on his plate. There were four left.
Brunch was bursting from the seams. T stormed to the back area. The TB was taking a break and wolfing down some bread.
"No eating." She barked. The TB put his fist over mig mouth and tried to hide the swallow. She got right up in his face.
"No eating!" Ten minutes later SJ put together a plate of fresh hot bread with some oil to dip into and The TB watched as SK casually ate bite after bite while chillin' by the coffee bar. I wouldn't be surprised if The TB stuffed a loaf of bread in his apron to have so he could rip off small pieces throughout the rest of brunch.
Meanwhile, I wondered how Gene was managing the machine.
"Can't you hurry up?" DV blew down her neck. Thank God Gene stood her ground. This stand of the force only ignited DV more as she pushed her way though to the machine ajacent to Gene. Gene continued to take her time and stared at the screen while DV watched. Biddy walked up.
"You need some help?"
"Yes. Where is the Mimosa Cosmopolitan?"
"It's under Mimosa." Biddy showed her through the steps.
"Thanks."
"No problem." Gene walked back to work and HH stepped up to the machine.
"Why do they hire people here that don't know how to wait tables?" DV closed her gun and shoved in her holster.
"Have you seen Erica's shit." DV spit back.
"Yeah, she's pretty clueless."
"Clueless! She's a retard." The worst." HH shoved her gun back in her apron.
"She won't last.
"I already said something to management."
"Good." The high five with the lock of their eyes made it clear they were on board to my inevitable distruction.
I walked up to the my next table chipper than a blue bird.
"Hi!" I opened the gun and a plethora of papers spilled out like a fan onto the floor. I scrambled to pick up the notes on hell while the hot lacoste shirt tried to manage his less from hitting the top of the table.
" I got it." They ordered their food and I split to the machine.
"Do you know who that is?" VB was obviously jealous that I had the table.
"He's a famous b-ball player, played for Duke."
"Oh."
"You should talk to T and send him something on the house." I hunted down Jeff and he agreed.
"Send him some banana bread." Great, I'm sure his blond baby with pencil arms was all about the bread. But I was grateful that I could send something for free so I could make it look like I did it to make up for the paper fan spill. Like I thought, the blonde egg whites only wouldn't touch the I dare you dessert and he was left to enjoy it himself. He left me a 40% tip.
"Maybe you should go to another machine."
Pro B-ball player spilling writings all over the feet of his table and he can't move because his legs hit the top of the table.
I hate the asians - Varsity Blues laughs and asked me if I carded those bitches. The kitchen sends out the wrongs food and she snorts "That's not what we ordered." There are not enough renditions of sorry in this world for the fuckin asians. They walk in mobs and hit the brunch in mobs. It sucks.
Jeffrey watching SJ eat (all in Jeffrey chapter)
Tourists sit for over an hour and pull out tourist book at the end to figure out where Manhattan is.
Finger in water
Bus Bitch pointing to me about class in ice.

CHAPTER: THE PERSONAL DINNING ROOM
It's become apparent that the PDR is for the best servers in the place, and I've lost A to the his VIP status. Or, maybe they just want to separate us like a fourth grade teacher does when you are having too much fun. It was Sunday brunch and A was tanked. This is not the first time I've heard about drinking downstairs where the managers are too busy on the floor. It was also the place for Chad, now named ROADRUNNER, does lines of coke, which explains a lot.
Turns out SUPERMAN didn't show up for work so his shifts for next week were "Up for grabs," meaning he was fired. I wanted to puke. HEDGEHOG walked in a minute before opening and missed all the pre-show set up that we all endured for over two hours. I dont' know what made me more sick, her laqidasical bullshit or the sweet, "Hi," from management like the Princess could do no wrong.

Stomach bloated in the morning from buckets of water, coffee and buttery bread and I don't even drink coffee or break bread. But I have to throw it down the pipe to extinguish the cespool left from drinking the night before.

CHAPTER: GLEN
I ran into Glen today.
"Erica." I stopped frozen in my tracks, afraid it was someone from my sorted past.
"Glen you are always on the phone." In his usual stance with his phone smacked across his ear, he told the person on the other line he had to go.
"This is our new restaurant." He welcomed me into the joint.
"Watch your step, there's wet cement." It was half way there under solid construction.
"It's big."
"Brian's going to run it."
"That's great...so Jason's going to take over J?"
"Yea."
"He's really good." I thought about all the times Jason walked me through my mistakes placing orders with patience and then giving me free food to send to tables that I fucked up.
"He has a good attitude." I yearned to open the register on the political bullshit of J but held my hate. We said our goodbyes and a rainbow crossed my face as I walked down the street. He likes me. He knows my name. My arsenal was building. The day for T to fire me was welcomed because Glen liked me.

CHAPTER: THE SCHEDULE
It was a fucked up night followed by a more fucked up day. I went out with Trooper and ended up at an after hours bar at 4 am. Trooper and I got split and I ended up walking home to find a hot brit outside CW smoking a dart. We started chatting and the next thing I knew I was in a cab to his hotel. He spent the night in the bathroom for his brother was asleep in the room. I wasn't sure when I decided I wanted to take a shower but we did, sort of. It was tight quarters. He pulled out some coke and I decided that was not something I should be around so told him I was going to get something from my purse. I darted out the door and ran for the elevator. I felt like it was the Shinning as I ran from corner to corner lost in the maze of the hotel walks of velvet red flowers. I was stopped in the middle of my cheese search.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing." I felt bad and even worse that there was zero excuse for why I was running around the halls like a mouse in a maze. I didn't want to do anything but kiss and wouldn't let him touch me. I was still a fortress and wondered if or when the day would come when I could let the cannon balls make their way over the high walls. It would take a love rocket.
I stepped out into the morning 7 am sun and walked by another walk of shamer trying to walk in her crocked heels and thick cakey make up. I got home only to find that I beat Trooper home and could have just had the kid stay with me on the futon that night. Oh well. My head was pounding, my heart was leaking and, the day was off to a great start!
I walked into work today and found out I was not on the schedule for next week.
"Chad, can we discuss the schedule. I'm not on it."
"You're not?" I could tell he was bluffing and was not going to deal anymore.
"No. I'm not." Before I could continue he fluttered away and I was sick. I ran after him.
"Can we talk about the schedule?"
"Not now." I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing and numb that I was walking deaf. I refused to lose my hearing over this and walked downstairs to find him hiding from me in the office.
"Chad, I really don't feel comfortable working right now and not knowing what to deal."
"Have a seat. Tina and I think you should be watched some more to make sure we want to keep you on. So I'll keep an eye on you this weekend and we'll see."
"So basically, you want me to work this weekend than are going to fire me on Sunday because I requested two weeks off."
"Well.."
"No, so you knew you were cutting me over a week ago when I requested the time off to visit with my mother in town and work in a pilot and lied to my face when I asked you if that was cool and now you are giving me the run around knee jerk shit so you don't seem like you are "firing" me but putting me on some probation where I can be insecure and on egg shells while you watch my every move."
"This is really coming from Tina."
"Yeah but she's not here so that's that." There were no more words to exchange. What was the point of talking with lies.
I walked out the front door and mumbled under my breath Sleep Tight you Morons! Threw my apron in the nearest trash can on the street and walked home in the rain.

CHAPTER: SHIT CREEK
I got home to some more terrible news. The MTV pilot was being pushed for another week which meant another lost income for seven whole days. I tried to get a grip but the tears started balling up in my throat. Perfect. I lose my job at J over this stupid pilot. I left Hollywood to end the bullshit of the show world and it bite me in the ass. Plus, my mom was coming into town for her cancer trip and now I had to work the whole time.
I went for a run and it became apparent that my ending at J was not sitting well. Nothing was sitting well. I decided it was time for the little guy to stand up to bullshit. I got home, sat on the floor of Camp Widdleton and pulled out my sisters laptop. Twenty minutes later I emailed the owner the following:

Dear G,
I am writing to let you know that I really enjoyed working for you at J. I especially appreciated that you met me once, remembered my name, and treated me with respect. However, there are some issues that I would like to address concerning the treatment of employees at J.
Yesterday, I showed up to work to discover that I was not on the schedule for next week. My name was deleted from the spreadsheet without any warning. This is after working my ass off for two weeks, for free, and then had only worked a little over a week at J. Over a week ago, I asked for permission to have two weeks off in October (I am a television producer and got a gig on a pilot) and was told that was fine. The truth is it was not "fine," and there were plans in motion to have me fired which resulted in the distribution of a schedule, sans my name, without letting me know. Essentially, the decision was made days prior, and I was not informed, but made to believe I had a job there. Co-workers were coming up to me, asking me why I was not on the schedule, which was humiliating, and I had no response. It became very apparent to me that I was being treated with zero respect, after I had gone through the process of training and becoming a server. I find this discerning, for if I was told it was not ok to take another temporary job, but instead was lied to, then I could have said no to the pilot and kept my job. However, this did not occur, and instead, a shady procedure unfolded where I was not sure what the deal was, or where I stood. I suppose I should have lied about why I needed time off to help ensure my employment, but I am a straight shooter, and not so keen on fabrication to get by in life.
Needless to say, there is a rotating door at J that is questionable and upsetting. Since I have been there two people have been let go who were solid people, hard workings, amicable with customers and a pleasure to be around. Meanwhile, five other people have been brought onboard to go through training. The hire and fire regularity is absurd. Additionally, the fear tactics of certain management breeds an atmosphere of fear and insecurity among some staff, which often times spurs an unhealthy atmosphere. Moreover, when you enter J, the paranoia runs high, which is interesting because there should be nothing to hide.
Bottom line, I am telling you all this because I like you. I like your character and hands on approach to J and wish things could have worked out for me there. Yes, it was a steep slope of a learning curve for me, but the customers liked me, so at the end of the day I could only move forward in my knowledge, and find solace in the fact that I made the customers have a pleasant experience at J.
I wish you the best success at The Smiths and if anything, I hope you gain some knowledge of how people are treated at J and find a way to make a difference so someone in the future doesn't end up in my shoes.
Best Regards

THE SHIT ON THE GRASS - HOLLYWOOD

AN EXCERPT FROM A DWGHMF - Diary of a Writer Gone Hollywood Mother Fucker

People come to Hollywood to be in the industry. The allure. The obsession with celebrity fueled by the media, carries over to men and women that want to make something that will give them a voice. A voice unlike any other. There lies a massive problem. A town that follows trends fueled by fear is not going to bank on your ‘voice.’ It is going to hustle to work to read the trades and find out what won at the box office and turn around and do everything to reinvent that box office hit. They don’t want to be in People, or in tabloids. But they want to know those people. It’s all about being in the know. They make sure those precious clients, actors and producers, are at the top of their call sheet and makes a valiant attempt to sound smooth; in control.
“Get me Rex.”
An agent barks at his assistant who, if they are seasoned, already has dialed the client, and is ready to transfer the call.
“Rex, hey buddy, great numbers this weekend. You should take a vacation with that beautiful family of yours.”
Chances are he’s never met the client’s family, nor does he really care. There is some major money in publishing a catch phrase book for the dimwitted agent that runs out of obsequious remarks to spew on his clients. Key phrases like, ‘Hey big guy!’, more. The psychological games that agents play are quite entertaining in their ridiculousness. The delicate relationship between an agent and his client is a dance that changes over time depending on the success of each person’s career. If it is new talent paired with an accomplished agent, that agent makes it very clear from the start that ‘you need me more than I need you.’ The delicate dance is a mixture of ass kissing veiled with a threatening tone. This agent is not going to be on the horn very long with his new client, he has other Bigger clients to attend to, not to mention an afternoon of poaching to look forward to.
“Get me Fickle.”
“I already left word.” That’s code for ‘ I left a message.’
Are you ready to puke? I’ll do my best to spare you.
As I mentioned, the relationship evolves over time. What starts as an obnoxious façade of pretending to be more important than breakfast evolves into a beast, a bitch of a dance rooted in fear, where the agent must carefully maintain his seat of being necessary. The continual success of a client manifests the fear intrinsic to the job. The turning point in this relationship happens when the client realizes that at some point the agent needs him. The panic of losing that client helps fuel the fire of poaching. Here, once again, we find the sick dialogue that oozes with pathetic desperation at the core yet is masked with an upbeat tone. And, of course, the threat remains part of the strategy of poaching. A strategy of dropping names and educating a person on why Agent A is better then any alternative. Agent A has a commercial spot to convince a poor soul to join his team.
“We should have lunch.” Free food is always welcomed, everybody knows that. So how do you chew through the fat and know any truth behind all the silliness that spews out of Agent A? Simple, you can’t. Unless you are an assistant, you’ll never know anything about Agent A or the agency that he bleeds for.

Starters in this town enter a world of terror and abuse and quickly assimilate into the attitude one must take to survive.

Insecurity is the pink, fat, two faced elephant sitting in the latest lunch boat. Agents, managers, producers, writers, directors, all grapple with the polar society of Hollywood. You act like you own it, but you fear fear fear all the time. It’s not about rejection but learning to act like you are the shit (yet knowing you are the shit, but you are sitting across a table with a person full of the worms that are suppressed beneath the shit on the grass who will never see Plato's light of the sun.)

It is a tough game, for the worms that feed and need that shit, the agent, represents you. Fund your film. Make shit happen. But, when you are not ‘the shit’ and attempt to stay far from the grass, you enter a different sphere and find yourself wondering how you can assimilate and be ‘normal’ shit so you are taken seriously and not fail. Independent film was born on this notion. Screw the fat lunches, the SHIT in the yard of Hollywood…I am going to do it myself. And several do. Independent filmmakers were pioneers and said fuck you (thank God,) to the whole studio field of filmmaking.

Pathetic is thinking you are being real and dealing with bullshit and not walking away. Why would I put myself through horrific scenes just to hold onto some notion that honesty will conquer?

MANIC ON LONELY FIRE

MANHATTAN – SOME NIGHT OF SEVERAL

Getting my apartment seemed fun, until I was actually there, all alone in a room with a futon and a bookshelf. So this was the life. This was freedom. Living in a box with no comforting distraction like a TV to pass the time, or make white noise. I am so lonely that I got a call from a solicitor trying to get me to switch telephone providers and I found myself asking him where he was calling from, how his job was going; pretty much anything I could to keep him on the phone so I didn’t have to be alone in my sterile place. He was from Georgia and we chatted for a bit till I got to that point in the conversation where I wondered what the fuck I was doing. Were things that bad that I had to talk to a phone solicitor? I guess it was no different than talking to random people on the subway, or on the bus, or on the street, or storm up to them in a restaurant or a bar and think it was quite alright to sit down and chat until that other point in the conversation when the person looks at you like you are mad and wonders why the hell you are sitting at their table all of a sudden, or even in their conversation to begin with.

I sat on my fire escape and watched the naked guy across the street and wondered what it would be like to get my kicks out of sticking my dick out my window while watching innocent victims on the street pass by. I wondered if that would cure my terrible deep seated sadness for companionship and an end to my slow time. Usually I would stay out till I was exhausted by booze that would fuel my sleep, but tonight, I am sitting here and not comfortable in my own space. I decided to call my drug dealer and get some pot delivered.
“Hi. My name is Newanda and I live on 177 East 77th street and I would like to RSVP for the party.”
I hung up and felt relief that I would come across someone other than my naked masturbator across the street. Twenty minutes later I opened the door to my delivery guy and realized he too had other places to go that night; other people to help escape from their sober lives. I sat on the hard wood floor and smoked the pot out of the shitty joint I never seemed to know how to make. Moments later I was numb. Numb to anxiety, loneliness, caring. I didn’t think anymore about anything, and could stop the ongoing thrust of thought running through my head. Thank God for that. Thank God for pot.

One puff and the thoughts bursting on and on in my brain were silenced, at least until tomorrow.

JOURNAL ENTRY

I came home to a red light blinking on my answering machine and didn’t want to check the messages. Checking meant calling someone back which was too much effort at the time. I stripped off my clothes and got in the bath with my mangos. I tried to take a mere moment to not think but it was at those wannabe quiet times that I found myself thinking deep down against my will. I thought about my hyper nights and how they might stem from a deep depression. I am so lonely and tired that I can’t deal. It’s a reverse depression takes hold and I am out on the town lashing out onto society. I can only thank the angels that surround me and protect the people that cross my face.

JOURNAL ENTRY

I liked to run, I liked to drink, I liked to do drugs, I liked to eat, I liked to kiss, I liked to masturbate and I liked to do all of these to the utmost extreme. After watching Oprah today, I am convinced there is something deep inside me that is in pain. Something that drives me to excess. But it’s never been something I wanted to change, in fact, at times I was proud of my passion: my ability to do nothing half ass in my life. I have to admit, there is a fine line between passion and whatever is on the other side, and hopefully through writing and telling my tales, I will come close to defining that line, and discovering the me, beneath the ball of energy that drives me to do more, be more, have more, and get more.
My first boss always used to say “The simple truth is...” Nothing was simple about my first job out of college, nothing was simple about these past few years. The bottom line is truth is NOT simple. Truth is never simple. If truth were simple, we would be living free of fast food and Ricki Lake because it is easier to buy a Big Mac and sit and watch ridiculous people spill their guts on television and feel some sense of relief that you are not so pathetic, than it is to eat a untainted piece of fruit or look at yourself in the mirror naked and ask yourself, who the hell am I?

JOURNAL ENTRY – LOOKING BACK

My first attempt to change began my junior year in college. I was walking to the gym for yet another day of volleyball practice. It was my ninth year of volleyball and it was no longer a sport to me, I was going through the motions like a mime with skill. I decided to stop by the office to speak to my coach about something that bothered me about her coaching, and didn’t expect to walk out of the gym and never return.
“Hey Lobe! I never see you in here.” I hated her nickname for me but somehow dealt with it.
“I just wanted to drop by and talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t feel like it anymore.”
“You don’t feel like what?” I stared at her perplexed face that squeezed out of her terrible hair cut, hair that looked like she was a blind bull dike, and knew she was not ready for my next statement.
“I don’t feel like playing anymore.”
“A lot of people go through times when they hate their sport. That’s part of playing.”
I wanted to reach across her desk and pop off her tiny head like a pez dispenser.
“Yeah well that feeling has gone on for way too long and I have decided today to do something about it.” I sat across the table firmly believing in the truth that was easily pouring out of my mouth.
“So you are just going to quit?”
“Yes.” Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t feel an ounce of pity for deserting her, because I couldn’t stand the bitch. My tears stemmed from my ability to finally free myself from the burden of holding onto a sport that had become dead in me. It was like letting go of a dead animal that you carried on your shoulder for years and years, just because you always have. I was crying out of pure joy, because saying those words ended the internal struggle.
“You are going to regret this.” She challenged me with her stupidity, and I looked her straight in the eye and said, “I don’t think so.” I walked out of her miserable hole of an office.
I continued to cry and tried to pull myself together as I exited the building. I walked up the stairs out onto campus, and felt the weight lifted off my shoulders at every step I took. I did it! I QUIT!!!!! And it felt great.

The next day I was a normal student. I went to class then home to relax and watch some good old Jerry Springer. The phone rang with a long distance ring and I picked it up. It was my best friend John from freshman year calling from Paris.
“Hello?”
“Hello there. It’s your good friend John.”
“John!!” I hadn’t spoken to him in months and was thrilled to receive his call.
“It is so good to hear your voice. How are you?”
“Good, good. What’s up?”
“Ah...nothing much. Let’s see, oh yesterday I quit volleyball and”
“You what?”
“I quit.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Oh..so then it’s a good thing.”
“Hell yeah!”
“Well good. Listen I can’t talk long cause it’s long distance and everything but there is this party I want you to go to in Montreal on December 18th.”
At the time I didn’t think about that strange invite to some party in Montreal, or think to ask the question, why me?
“A party? I don’t know if I can make it. I’m not sure when my ticket is scheduled to return home.”
“Listen, you are welcome to stay at my place, and it would mean a lot to me if you would come.”
“Well, I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“Okay.”
“So how are the French women treating ya?”
“Alright. You got my emails?”
“Yeah. So did you convert the lesbian yet?” John was notorious for going for women that, for the most part, unattainable. And somehow always managed to get them.
“No, actually I am trying to land this Vantrap chick, but she has a boyfriend in Los Angeles.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, but listen, I got to go because my card is running out but, email me and let me know if you can make it, and please try.”
“Okay, bye dear.”
I hung up the phone. It felt so good to speak to him. At the time, his voice seemed friendly, however, listening to his voice in my head now, I can hear the urgency of his tone. He missed me, and has desperate to see me.

The next day I walked across campus and decided I wanted to leave. I wanted to go and begin the deconstruction of Newanda. I knew I had to go to a foreign place, and I was going to find the antithesis of city life. I walked into the study abroad office, and sat down in the study abroad chair.
“I want to go abroad next spring.” Like leaving volleyball behind, this impulsive statement come out of my mouth with no hesitation.
“Okay, where would you like to go?”
“I don’t know...England...Ireland...Scotland....Australia....Spain.” She didn’t seem interested in guiding me through the process of nailing down a place or two for me to consider.
“Here is a book that explains the different programs. Why don’t you look through it, and come back tomorrow, and we can see what is a good fit.”
“Great, thanks!”
I walked home and started to read the information. Every program had the same perfect picture juxtaposed to a neat little paragraph describing how this place is the best place in the world to study. I realized that I was going to blindly pick a place and just go, so I did, London, England.
“London. I want to go to London.” I was back the next day in the same seat chatting with the same woman with a part perfectly measured down the side of her head.
“We typically discourage our students from attending school in London. It’s a busy place and can be an adjustment.” Was she crazy? I go to school in New York Freakin City and she thought London would be an adjustment?
“They do speak English over there?” She was not amused.
“How about Bristol. We have a great relationship with them, and have had great feedback from past students.” She sold me in a second without any further investigation on my part. The reckless impulsive behavior was shooting out of my brain so fast that it appeared to have no second to take a breath and actually think about my decision.
“Okay, Bristol it is then.”
I filled out the paperwork and was ready for my new life. I emailed my friend in England that was already abroad for a year at Oxford.

“Get ready to rage, cause I am making my way to the mother country. God save the Queen!”
Then I emailed John.
“I am off to England for next semester. I am psyched!!!!! Sorry, but I won’t be able to go to your ball thing with you but I will write once I get to England. Merry Christmas.”
Once I landed in England, I expected a cultural shock. No such luck. It was a lot of tea drinkers, and drinkers in general. I got settled in my little single dorm room, and began the life change. The goal was simple: to learn moderation. I only had a bed and a desk in my room which was isolated in the foggy bushes of bleak nothingness. I had to walk five miles to campus, and only had to take two classes, but still got full credit at my university. My life quickly slowed down and became a bit boring. I had too much time on my hands, and no one to entertain me. I would take long walks and run and pray that my surroundings would curb my internal combustion. My moods were both confused by wallowing in the dark depressed environments, and feeling like a caged animal with nowhere to go. I would kickbox in my room and blow air punches at the mirror as I watched myself in my desperate attempt to release my fierce energy. My attempt of a “life change” was not going well.

JOURNAL ENTRY – I’M BACK (THANK GOD)

I left England no better off than when I landed, except I was 10 pounds lighter and ready to spend the summer in New York. I was back in the sling, subletting a place in Harlem, and working at a mergers and acquisitions firm with way too much time on my hands. I decided to spend my downtime writing.

THAT SUMMER

That summer I kept a journal to keep track of my life, my thoughts and feelings, and did my best to forget him. And, like any girl in the post rejection stage, or any girl wanting to escape the pain of silence and feelings of what the fuck, I busted my ass to get in shape while obsessing over food, fat and weight. Slim Fast blended with ice took front row next to Tangurey and Tonic.

June 16th, 1998
I am trying to live an honest life but the more honest I am, it seems the more difficulties I find. When one is open and exposed they are left in an extremely vulnerable state, where anyone or anything can affect the condition of that state.

June 21st, 1998
I am going through something strange right now in my life, and I wish I could pin point what exactly my problem is, problem is not the correct word, but I am short of any other word. I am alone a lot and I know that is not safe, or healthy but, simultaneously, I have no desire to surround myself with people or places. I went to a bar on East 53rd and 3rd with some friends that have graduated and work in the city now and it was fun seeing them, and catching up, but the whole scene was not so grand. I always thought being young and single in a city like New York would be wild, adventures and fun, but instead I find myself talking to drunk suits and ties. That’s all they are, wallstreet boys, and victims of the ladder.

June 25th, 1998
I was so adamant about being in New York for the summer, and swore that I wouldn’t spend another summer in Los Angeles, but right now it doesn’t sound so bad. I think my family hates me or thinks I don’t like them, but I just needed to be away and fuck, I don’t know. I am on the verge of tears and long for my old friends, maybe even my old life.

June 27th, 1998
My roommate thinks I have obsessive-compulsive disorder and so do I. He gave me some Ritalin which I take when I feel like I need them. There I said it! I am not fucked up or anything but a little hyper and out of control sometimes. It doesn’t make me a retard or incapable by any means, in fact, I am highly functional. I am going to psyche services in the fall and will see someone to learn more about it, or me. I am not ashamed, just uneasy about telling anyone.

June 30th, 1998
I am at work and totally bored. I’ve realized that the amount of time it takes me to do a task takes an hour and they expect it in four or five hours. I’m not working on speed but it seems that I can complete work and such an accelerated pace that I have pretty much all day to fuck around and even then they think I work fast. Boredom is my biggest problem, and I fear this is going to slowly kill my spirit and my brain. There is only so much boredom a person can take.

July 3rd, 1998
Well, I have returned into the abyss of self-denial and betrayal and I feel like ass. I wish I could explain it but I can’t even explain it to myself. One of these days my brain will stop causing so many problems and I will be free from my mind. Yeah, right. I am sad that the summer of my dreams is almost over and the reality of life is waiting to hit me in the jaw. I take for granted that I work in a great area and live in a sweet apartment. I guess those material things are nothing compared to the loneliness I feel in this city. I still love NYC, but I wish I had someone to relish the plethora of places available to someone young and energetic. My roommate left today for England and I am forced to live alone for the next three weeks which scares the shit out of me, but maybe it won’t be too bad.

July 12th, 1998
I wake up, blend my slim fast with some cold rocks, and eat my breakfast. Blending it seems to make it bigger in the glass than alone in the can, so if you are on a mission to lose weight because THAT’S why he doesn’t like you, then try the ice. It’s good. Summer is lonely, but a healthy lonely where I am learning about me. I guess if you spend a lot of time with yourself and not by yourself you are bound to become undone.

July 15th, 1998
Today I had another epiphany. The duality that fights in the soul is golden, and realized through my heart, my brain, and passion. That’s what I know, that is all I know, and some of what I understand. I have to love myself. Smile through the black and white forces paradoxically confusing me, yet, intricate to my nature, my being.

July 21st, 1998
I made a new friend today. I was sitting in my ridiculous cube, bored out of my mind, and looked up for salvation. J, a tall, exotic, young black woman, was standing across the aisle dropping off mail on someone’s desk. I reached out to her like a child making friends with someone in the sand box.
“Hey J.” I cried out for help. She turned, and rested her arm against my desk.
“Do you have a nightlife?”
“Ah…no.”
“Well, tonight that’s gonna change.”
And just like that, my summer began. Every night we hit the scene hard. Dancing, boozing, smoking. No one could stop us. Together we were too hot to be rejected. Every club, bar, party, there was no stopping the black and white cookie. It was the perfect set up. Our work hours were twelve noon to seven so we could roll in by noon, hungover, and hit up the company buffet, guzzle Snapple all day, change in the bathroom at night, than party all over again.
It was the summer I became New York. Like most, it didn’t swallow me whole, it just took bites here and there. Every morning I woke up swearing to my grave that I will never consume alcohol again, but the devil would take over and I would find myself unable to say no. I refused to go home and be alone so spent almost every night out on the scene hitting on men like they were band-aids for my self destructive behavior. I ended the summer ready to go back to the utopian walls of academia that consumed my life and ended the boredom that was the straight jacket of my summer.

SENIOR YEAR CAN KISS MY ASS

School started and classes were coupled with heightened anxiety. I had practiced Ashtanga Yoga all summer to help release the consistent anxiousness that possessed every second of my existence, and now I found it hard to juggle five classes and find time to practice yoga as much. The pulsating anxiety coupled with the question ‘What are you going to do when you graduate?’ wasn’t helping much. I felt like saying in response, please go fuck yourself. I am 22 years old and have no idea so back off. Unfortunately, that answer was not acceptable. It seemed that the entire world was centered around getting that first perfect job out of college. All the wall street boys were dropping resumes at Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Chase Bank. You name it, they did it. One of my roommates had Goldman and every other bank whoring themselves out to get him and the other with his perfect 4.0 had to choose between the first, and second ranked investment companies on wall street, and John, my third and final roommate, had plenty of choices as well.
Being an English major, I was in denial that I was fucked. There seemed to be only two jobs available for my English ass: A teacher, or, I could fill a cubicle in some big-ass office, pushing papers and making spreadsheet for the big guy chillin’ on his yacht smoking cigars, catching marlin and making a few “business” calls while the helmsman stirred the ship. Yeah, well, no thanks. Don’t get me wrong, I interviewed for everything: advertising, publishing, public relations. But none of it was for me. And I was not what you would call the ideal interviewee. Most of the time the interviewer sat there not sure. Just, not, sure. I was stuck in a suite full of over-achievers who knew exactly where they were headed, and had the means to get there, and I was left clueless and scared in my dorm room. That chummy ‘You can do it smile,’ trying to pretend I had it all figured out and was not stressed at all was fading fast. I also looked like a dike in a suit.

I’M OUT AND IT’S ON - 147 EAST 77TH STREET – MAY 1999

“Which one do you want?”
“I don’t know, I don’t care, which one do you want?”
“I like the one in the Dona Karen personally.”
“I knew you would. He’s already talking to me, so, do you want to instigate the pass off?”
“Sure.”
I flushed the toilet, wedged myself in-between the two girls, and quickly washed my hands. I exited the bathroom and searched the room for J. She was living in Brooklyn and we managed to stay friends that senior year and now we were back living in the city enjoying life together. The club was booming. J and I walked around and scoped out the crowd.
“Let’s get drinks.” My usual suggestion. We wrestled our way to the bar and smiled at the bartender.
“What can I get you girls?” He was cute, not hot, but cure enough to be a bartender in New York.
“I’ll have a martini and,” I looked to J.
“Red wine please.” We got our drinks and chilled at the bar.
“I’m tired of hitting on guys.” I complained to J.
“Then don’t, I don’t.”
“Yea, but there are so many cowards in this town. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe if you showed some patience.”
“I don’t know what that is.” I smiled and downed the remainder of my drink. One drink wasn’t going to do much for me, but I hadn’t eaten much that day, just the usual: tasty delight and a block of Parmesan cheese.

Several hours later, I was stumbling home, convinced I was walking a straight line, as my mind raced through the events of the night. I climbed the four floors to my apartment, and managed to make some concoction of tuna fish, tomatoes and pasta, which I wolfed down before I hit the hay, literally.

JOURNAL ENTRY – JULY 17TH, 1999

I am exhilarated and lonely. I am living in my shitty little studio and it is very strange because I never thought it would be what it is, which I don’t even fucking know. Life outside college is life. Everyday is a new diet mixed with an old obsession with food, fat and my body. I am sick and tired about obsessing about my stomach, my thighs and whether or not I have a defined ankle bone, but that doesn’t seem to change the fact that I do. I slightly blame America for my bodily obsession as it adds to my mental penetration. My biggest finger points to my Mom because she fed all of us way too much to compensate for her own anorexia and, as a result, we have never had a normal understanding of food. When I say ‘we’ I mean myself, my older sister and my younger sister, all of which suffer severe food issues.
My stomach HURTS. It always has to be all or nothing with me, so now I am stuck with all and an unhappy overdose of food in my body. I have decided that I want to marry have a family and the whole nine yards. So I must lose weight, become a model size 2 (or maybe it’s -2,) and then get some fabulous man to escort me down that long aisle to my dream life, where there are no cubicles or secretaries or any other aspects of corporate America. What I don’t get is that many men run to Wallstreet to make a shit load of money because they think this will land them a wife. Not all women associate marriage with money but I guess a lot do. The irony in the whole mess is that most of those men that start on Wallstreet to make that money to score that hot chick end up being too late because they work their asses off for several years in their twenties and early thirties and by the time they actually hit the bars or dating scene, they’ve been scooped up by some other guy who said, ‘You got a great ass.’ Yup, that’s all it took. Then, somehow, Wall boys find time to squeeze women into the picture because there are 80 year old women shopping on Madison as we speak with their 80 year old Wall street icon husbands sitting down in their corner office so there is some hope I suppose. So what if they have some putty-tang on the side. You turn away, just turn away. Hopeless.
God, what has become of me? I can’t even speak that name without wondering when I will have religion or faith in my life. Why do I think I need negative thoughts to drive me to greatness? Anger, bitterness, stubbornness. Such words seem to be valuable drivers to fame, fortune and personal physical fitness. Not love, compassion and peace. If you want to lose 10 pounds you don’t think of happy thoughts, you take a picture of that one guy that rejected your sorry ass, and plaster it to the wall next to a naked ugly picture of yourself, and you use that everyday to make you work out and drive you to a healthier happier self. So what if you use negative feelings to drive you, it doesn’t make you a bad person, just to opposite, a better person. I just don’t think that love can be the thing to save me these days, so it is out with the red and in with the black.

JOURNAL ENTRY – OCTOBER 16TH, 1999

I gave up reading Mody Dick today, because quite frankly, it sucks. I picked up D.H. Lawrence and read it in two days. Now, that’s good writing. If you have to struggle to read it, then, it is probably quite bad to say the least!
Once again I digress. I spent my entire Sunday walking the street on Columbus and the Upper East Side, and stared at people, and watched them stare at me. I am beginning to realize that we are not alone in our loneliness because everyone experiences the same loneliness. Some are just fortunate to enjoy spending time alone, and loathe the presence of others. I believe man is a creature of habit (I use the term man cause it is a saying and stupid to change such catch phrases just to be politically correct) thus, if he spends significant time alone, he is bound to get used to the time alone, and not like to be with people. I am not one of those people. I have spent time alone, and still long to share it among familiar faces. But it is not the fifties, so I can’t simply get wed to the first bachelor on the street. No, that would be way to simple and nice. Instead, I have to front a “career” for several years, earn a living, and the respect of a mate, only to surrender it all to marriage. Well that makes a load of sense. Please let me work really hard to make a career, and meet men who respect my passion only to stop one day and stand in the kitchen, and watch the water run down the grease pan while I hear the clock tick behind me three times, it’s time to pick up the kids. Well that’s not so bad right?