RAMBLING

Cue the title theme for The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. The ceiling fan on one click of the pull switch. Slower with two clicks, slowest with three. On the television, Gollum raises a live catfish to his mouth, gushing with blackened saliva.

George picks away at a leftover bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, engrossed in the film. I lie back and watch the ceiling, shadows rapidly stretching across from the fan blades. I used to throw beanie babies at my ceiling fan to see them crash and spin out from impact.

He takes a break from pouring the red hot crumbs into his mouth and I peer up at him, a suspicious child.

The Perfect Intoxication. I'd like to think I achieved one of very few in my lifetime, on this night. It's an accumulation off my things. First, the atmosphere. My friends, the people whom I find familiar, pleasant, and comforting. Check. Second, the day after. I have absolutely nothing to do and all day to do it tomorrow. Admit it; sleeping in is pure joy. Check. Third, the substance. Both good in options and taste. Check. Mix well with timed consumption and I have successfully acquired The Perfect Intoxication.

There were talks of impulsive decisions that were ridiculously impossible to the naked eye. But doable. That's the beauty of it. "Let's go to Vegas right now, actually." I don't remember who brought it up. It sounded like a good idea. In the fit of a game of Apples to Apples, priorities came down to visiting Disneyland. No longer any parents to consult with, but instead our own financial consciences.

Growing up. The shift of the wicked scales between time, energy, and money. You can only pick two at a time.

It's 4:51 am. I'll just leave it at that and go to sleep.

THIS WONKY SCHEDULE

On set working in art department for our production designer.

Throughout the shoot, I worked on an assignment for Thursday's class. I thank George for taking fifteen minutes to award my MacBook Pro with a free, legitimate version of Final Draft 8. I'm quite the program hog. I'm spoiled. Not like a rotten egg or anything. More like a girl's future when her parents decide to buy her a stupid T-shirt that reads "Spoiled" in glittery cursive. And you ask yourselves why your daughter thought stripping was the only way to earn money to blow on blow...

Well, that escalated quickly. I just kind of took a penny and threw it down the hole to see how deep it is. The penny never hit rock bottom.

Two more classes to go and roughly two more months of this wonky work schedule. These commutes to LA will usually end with horrendous traffic. If you think you can escape its piercing, finely-manicured nails by waiting it out until late at night, you're wrong. One word, two hours: construction.

It's 2 a.m. right now and I was supposed to get up in about 6 hours. But I'm not called in for production tomorrow so I get to do what most girls do on their days off and buy me a set of tires for my car. And so ends my night.

MONTHLY

January.

Cold weather, heavy jackets, and wishful thinking.

February.

Valentine's, lover's birthday, and indulgences.

March.

Spring, bad news, and Portland travels.

April.

Commutes to LA, crashes, and mental breakdowns.

May.

Pursuits, maturity, and experience.

WHAT USUALLY HAPPENS AFTER I SPEAK MY MIND

SLEEPING GIRL

My body is floating.

I used to hated walking out of a movie.

I'm not well in the head. So I'm just going to q-tip my brain right now, and write whatever word comes out as quickly as I can.

Plain cottage funding closet iron sleep deprivation depriving souls son sunflower exhibit love cotton and appearance absence father issues extremely painful plane down into ocean sore because establishment development dull moment bear bare berry straw gold blonde sweet beer bottle chip tooth salsa dip party fiesta nightly rate motel crave you tote bag vehicle invigorated driver unmistakable passenger exhilaration doesn't seat slew sloth fly porn pornographic off head slide mansion sound music notes secret private class high education marijuana drugs sex alcohol hair pulling drilling alchemy chivalry shivering glitter crank men twirl spin rabbit hole unpaved road dead end float fly die.

As I read through the triggers and patterns in my choice of words, I can only conclude that there are so many things wrong with my psyche.

So, so many things.

I always get paranoid. I know that Mr. Tozzie in my AP History class would say, "If you think they're talking about you, stop. They're not. I wouldn't even be that narcissistic to think I'm important enough to others to be talked about."

I woke up in my bed alone, facing an untouched box of complimentary chocolates between the legs of my large Teddy. I'm notorious for finding food in my bed. Sometimes it's okay to eat. Other times, I spit it out.

Disgusting. I know, I know.

Off in the distance somewhere, a bartender weeps.