THINKING

At the OC Fair with empty wallets.

It's been a while since I've written. So I'll start this post with a dapper photograph of a group of people in their twenty-somethings standing in front of a large, wide-ranged ferris wheel. Just a group of toothy smiles, arms around shoulders, and girly lean-in/lean-back poses. What you wouldn't see here are the two black guys who were obviously in a relationship and oblivious to their surroundings. It took a while for us to lean over to the right so they wouldn't be included in this gem.

I'm running on two hours of sleep because I had a night's worth of teeth pain from a prescribed gel. Thanks, dentist. Should've known you weren't a real doc. I kid. He's a kind, Korean seoul. Only when I did doze off for those two precious hours did I have the worst nightmares.

I shook myself awake in a small, muffled cry and my boyfriend wraps his arms around me. "Don't worry...I'm here." I opened my eyes in the dark, and without turning, replied, "But my nightmares were about you." I smiled as he apologized.

I've been feeling at ease lately. It usually happens when I compare today to the same day one year ago, and also a year before that. I've improved quite drastically since last year. A year ago today, I was living in an over-priced apartment complex with too many amenities no one had much use for. I was working in an office to contribute solely to my savings, but not so much my character. And I was a day away from breaking it off with a temperamental and emotionally unstable ex. My skin condition, one that I've been struggling with for about 7 years to that date last year, was in a full blown outbreak. And I was unhappy about a lot of things. Waking up feeling guilty, like I was disappointing someone out there, at any given time.

I think back to the present date and think of where I'm living. My rent's been reduced by about 50% since that luxuriously unnecessary sublet. I work on my own doing graphics with a regular 8 to 5 schedule, getting paid as a freelancer. I'm in a wonderful relationship with someone I plan on spending the rest of my life with. And my skin is doing absolutely swell. No outbreaks since the year prior. I'm making it a weekly habit of spending some time with friends, trying to find a workable balance between obligations and spontaneity. And I've dropped that concern for the invisible nobody who I seem to work for every day to impress. Life is easier. Better. There are more possibilities and everything that is supposed to come is approaching rapidly. Like an express train running late.

It's kind of strange to see what drives people. I look at some of my friends, and see that many of them are not looking to settle down anytime soon. This is myself included, for at least another 5 years. By that, I mean I'm not really looking to pop out any kids and adorn myself with guilty pleasures while I'm on maternity leave. I'm not planning on resorting to daytime TV to curb my boredom. I don't want to purchase real estate just yet. On my phone, I have a list on my Notes app. It reads "Goals for 2013." I've got 8 things on that list, and I've accomplished 5 of them already. 3 of which I cannot, as they were dependent on a path that I have not gone down.

There are times when I sit back and think to myself that this is some of the best times for me. I'm young, there are still possibilities, and I haven't made any concrete decisions that I will have to stick to for the rest of my life.

Are you doing what you want? If not, can you change it? I always try and devise a plan for little things I contemplate on doing. They're usually monumentally life-changing, but I play with the idea and begin to construct a possible strategy. There's always a path to it. It just takes some adjustment to make it seem more possible.

I'm getting too preachy here for my own good. It's just a moment of reflection. I'm sure I'll get sarcastic and dry-witted sometime between now and the next time I come back to write and ramble.

Until then, find whatever it is that you're looking for.

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.

SLEEP, FOOD, AND MOVIES

I am inexplicably indifferent at this moment. I think the educational system has taught me to inadvertently hate Mondays. And I'm pretty sure graduating to a job with "office hours" has also renewed my lifelong sense of disdain for such an unintentionally hated day. Someone had to start the week, and God knows that Sundays are for brunches, dreading Mondays, and...well, God.

My weekend consisted of Riverside. I spent the entire weekend there, hiding from the world with sleep, food, and movies. I didn't do shit, and those were my intentions. I don't even think I made it a point to pretend to be interested in the Super Bowl. What time did it air? I didn't even know who won or lost until I saw a Facebook status update from one of the 9ers, a gentleman who graduated from high school the same year as me. And to that effect, I'm bracing myself for all the sports themed memes and smart aleck statements made in reference to the game that I won't get (nor will I try).

But I digress.

George and I went to eat dinner that Saturday evening. It was an impulsive decision that we both made, sitting in his car in the dead center of the lot near the university. A Denny's loomed behind us. A Del Taco stood feebly next to it, forgotten but still hopeful. A Fat Burger, a Flame Broiler. A pho restaurant. A pizza joint. Various cutesy boba places scattered in between the larger chains. "Where do you want to eat?" I asked, as we both simultaneous turned our heads in completely different directions, searching.

"Uhhhh," he trailed off and continues to peer over my shoulder as I did the same to him, still looking for a place to dine. "There's Marines. But I know you don't like Marines."

My head turned to follow the direction of his gaze behind me. In plain sight, I saw a closed business with nothing but the illuminated sign that read "Marines." We both bursted into laughter as I lightly shoved him. "Oh, Jesus."

My ex-boyfriend used to be a Marine.

We ended up walking into Sushiya. You know, some derivative form of a sushi restaurant. A greater portion of the menu turned out to be half off. In between bites of cut rolls and hand rolls, we both started talking about this strange recurring idea I've had in my mind for quite some time now. I remember mentioning it to my friend, Roberto, but in between our stages of intoxication. He wouldn't recall. It was just had something to do with an alternate reality, but a bit more complex and specific. I worry sometimes that I will believe it to be true, and eventually go crazy.

If I haven't already.

I watched Wall-E later that night and fell asleep on George's shoulder during the fact. I thought I played it off pretty well, because I responded in my normal voice when he checked to see if I was awake. While all the fat people were hovering through a community-wide transit area and Wall-E knocked a fat man named John from his hover seat, I dozed off once more. I woke up right when the ending credits started up, only to calmly ask George, "Don't you just like the credits? I like how they showed the advancement of mankind...while the people gradually lose weight, the style of art changes progressively." He agreed and I smiled to myself, extremely proud for sleeping through it without being caught.

But I guess he already knew I was asleep. He told me this as he escorted me down from my proud moment. Dang it.

The next morning, I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time ever. As the first scene began, I mentally groaned at sight of the apes, sitting there and picking frivolously at scattered plants in the ground. This is the whole movie, isn't it? Please prove me wrong, movie. I sat up and covered myself in a red blanket, hoping for a change of pace.

The pace didn't exactly change.

I did, however, find it cryptic and thought-provoking. "Will you tell me what the fuck happened, starting from when he landed on Jupiter?"

"Well...I'll try," George answered. I knew what kind of film it was as soon as he told me he'll "try".

I liked it. Although I probably missed both the philosophical and allegorical interpretations because I was too busy trying to figure out what the movie was about, I did pull a few things from it. I immediately went to look up and see what exactly Stanley Kubrick had in mind when he was making this film, only to discover (to my delight) that he encouraged an open interpretation of the film, and didn't completely offer a complete explanation of the meaning behind it. So, this leads me to three options: (1) watch the movie again, (2) read the book that Sir Arthur C. Clarke had written in conjunction with the film during its creation, or (3) have an open discussion with people who have seen it. I don't intend on finding an "answer", but it was kind of adorable finding the different homages that Wall-E made in honor of the film. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, the space crew worked with EVA probes, while in Wall-E, the Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator ("EVE") had her name mispronounced by Wall-E, who innocently annunciates it as "EVA". Because Wall-E is a Pixar film, and Pixar rarely creates without purpose, I would like to say that this was tribute was fit into the movie so well. And although 2001: A Space Odyssey and Wall-E have different points to prove, they both have a deeper messages to uncover. I think I would still like to listen to other interpretations of it before I begin to formulate my own.

It's strange to see what I have to say about things nowadays. I used to have a Dalmatians diary when I was younger, equipped with a set of rainbow colored washable markers. I'd write things like, "Today was a good day. I ate a sandwich and Mommy told me I had to sleep early but I don't want to." I was OCD, so I'd alternate colors in rainbow order. As difficult as it was to read, I still utilized the yellow marker regardless. It was so hard filling a page up back then. As you flip through the pages, you'll notice that I began to grow lazier, with my handwriting in a rushed slant as I noted, "Today was okay. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Well, bye!"

I think that's my weekend and thoughts in a very large nutshell. Like, if it were actually in a nutshell, it'd be big enough to fit me and a blanket in. I know I don't make much sense.

Well, bye.

FIESTA FRIDAYS

I woke up today, my eyes peeking through its lids in hopes of finding nothing but darkness.

Minor sunlight.

I facially groaned and reached over for my phone in hopes of confirming that yes, I have about two more hours of delicious sleep in my future. The time read 6:38 A.M., 22 minutes before my alarm goes off and yet another 8-hour day passes by. I felt myself growing warm and comfortable again as I slowly eased myself back to sleep.

My phone vibrated. Again. And again. Annnd...again. It continued a few more times and finally stopped. It was my boyfriend's nightly ritual to text me, and they usually range from lengthy to length-tabulous. Who am I kidding? They're all long and nice to wake up to.

I got ready like the 9-5 toolbag I am, and debated on whether or not I have time to dry my hair. On my way out from my room, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and jumped. Jesus. Alright already, I'll go and dry my hair.

Here's to another day working for a job I care very little for (*fakes downing a bott--glass of wine*).

Now, before judgment arises, I must clarify. Upon hire, I told my employer that I wouldn't be here for long. It would only serve as means to save money and contribute to my financial obligations. I do have some goals that I've been working on, but I can't exactly share it with the public. I will tell you, though, that I am saving up for these unlabeled goals. I'm only human. I'm a simpleton. I'm insignificant. I'm no celebrity. I am Jack's piece of shit. Yeah, so I kind of just made a Fight Club reference. If you didn't get it, then you are not the target demographic for readership.

I'm kidding. Who am I to tell you whether or not you should read my shit? I'm not that snobby.

It's usually in the mornings anytime after 8:01 A.M. that my friend, Foley, texts me. Every morning from Monday through Friday, like clockwork. I'll get a notification telling me that (a) Foley has texted me and (b) Hautelook is sending me daily spam email. I don't even shop on Hautelook. Forgive me for being curious and signing up with my email.

"Fiesta Frito Friday. I feel as though the days passed by way too quick this week, it's alrdy friday??" Foley calls them Fiesta Fridays when we both commute on our our own respective freeways to our separate jobs. I love Fridays. The cars merge smoothly, the drivers are more efficient, and the distance between all vehicles widens. People just don't hate their lives as much on Fridays.

Some time during work, George and I began to stray from our normal conversation on Gchat to discuss the imaginative possibilities of experiments on whether or not females are (considering majorities) more detail-oriented than males are. He made a good point observing that males do tend to be detail-oriented in things they are interested in. But still, what causes this? Nature or nurture? To speculate, we created this fictional world in which we completely isolate individuals from present day societies in all parts of the world. The question I posed was, "Would this experiment be considered abuse?" We are talking about a lack of exposure to...everything. Will these individuals still harbor gender-specific characteristics that we observe in the men and women we live with today?

This discussion went along the lines of The Truman Show, starring Jim Carrey. In this film, Jim Carrey plays a man who slowly begins to realize that his entire life was a reality TV show. The people he has grown up with, the people he has come to love and care for, are all participating actors. What a fucking trip. The worst part of this storyline is that it was for the sheer purpose of entertainment!

But why am I surprised? That's what's happening today, is it not?

These thoughts are way too intense for a Friday afternoon. Behind me, a small stack of magazines sit underneath my purse. Rolling Stones (featuring 30 Rock's last hurrah), Cosmopolitan, and US Weekly. Unattended and unread. I'm sitting in this office suite alone while I listen to the visiting Canon tech install and set up the network for our Canon copier. The phone rings in my boss's empty office. Pandora plays on the Two Door Cinema Club station. My keystrokes are louder than they should be.

Here's to my first blog ever since MySpace stopped happening.