Kicked off the new year by getting roped into going on a party bus with a bunch o’ people from high school. Went to bar and indulged in their $35 all you can eat + drink holiday special and had much more fun than I intended. Ended up making out with a damaged Tim Riggins facsimile until every scrap of makeup was literally gone from my face and my legs were sore from dancing. Ended up at some ocean-side motel with a bunch of drunk girls and coked-out surfer bros. Cocooned myself with said Riggins, made some weird promises that we never fulfilled, and drank a lot of rum. The rest of the month was spent working out and hibernating in my mother’s house while watching a lot of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Went to the MoMA one day and walked around for hours listening to Johann Johannsson and had some sort of weird out-of-body experience and fell in love with ~*art*~ in a way I hadn’t before. Started making short movies (mainly because I was forced to for class) and kind of fell in love with it even though I’m awful. Spent a lot of time hanging out with Brianna and eating pizza, dyed my hair pink, and interviewed Ron Swason.
Worked at lot. Interviewed a lot. Took a class on Hollywood in the 70s and became obsessed with American New Wave cinema and watched Taxi Driver about 3,000 times. Started caring about things. Saw Sleep No More and cried. Somehow managed to save up enough money to go to Miami with Matthew and Leon. It was warm and beautiful and we got to bike and kayak and have a gay ol’ time in the sun. Started writing some short fiction and fell in love with the American Southwest.
Nothing really happened in April. Made some more shitty movies, cried a lot about being poor and having no future. Still hadn’t kissed anyone or drank since said, Riggins. Maybe that’s why I was miserable, maybe I was just lazy. Probably. Continued dressing like the best friend in every 90s teen comedy.
Somehow managed to finish the semester with almost perfect grades and 3,000 finals. Moved back to Jersey for the summer and quickly wanted to die. Began drinking again. Did some more fun interviews. Started writing a lot of introductions to short stories that went nowhere. Went on a date that I thought would be a one time thing and now, eight months later is still…a thing? Booked a ticket for California and began having a panic attack every day about flying alone.
Worked at lot at this damn coffee shop I’m currently writing this in. Went to California, which was probably the greatest thing I’ve ever done. Got to stay with the my favorite men and see all the things I’ve always dreamed of seeing. Got to play around at the Sunset Ranch and Mulholland Drive and swim in the Pacific and drive down the PCH at sunset blasting good tunes and take part in the most Woody Allen-esque dinners. Came home from California and wanted to kill myself. Tried to book a ticket back but obviously that didn’t happen. Saw Melancholia and decided to enjoy being depressed and that I was totally okay in hating the world and hating myself and that wallowing under a willow tree in my backyard was a totally reasonable way to spend a summer.
Turned 21 by walking out on my mother in restaurant after an explosive fight. Subsequently got drunk on my porch with Anna and fell asleep in my brother’s bed. Spent a lot of time at my dad’s apartment and by that I mean falling asleep on the beach while listening to massive amounts of chillwave. Made a million collages, including one I sent to a lover that said, “Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.” Probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. Saw a ton of films. Worked at lot at BlackBook. Slept in my boiling hot apartment even though my subletter was there. Went to a tiki bar on the beach a lot, most memorably the time when we got a fancy boat ride home from the bar from my 8th grade boyfriend.
Back to the city. Spent a lot of time working at BlackBook and sweating in my apartment. Went to Philadelphia and got in a big fight with the person I was going there to see before I even arrived. Spent a lot of time pouting but also had a lovely time with some babes and bros. Came back to the city and started hanging out with some amazing dudes. Tried to write a lot, failed a lot. Began to panic slightly about becoming a senior. Spent Hurriqueen Irene with the Hurriqueens and Marquette eating a lot of pizza and having a lot of drinks and taking a lot of Xanax. School started up and I quickly felt my imminent death.
Did a lot of planning for my senior work, which was pointless because I change my mind every three seconds. It rained a lot. Went to the movies with Caspar a lot. Got some refund money from my student loans and bought a lot of black clothing, listened to a lot of Placebo. Worked at lot at BlackBook and decided I wasn’t going to be such a waste of a human.
Began writing my play, which gave me a real purpose to do work and care about life. Made some more shitty short films. Saw a lot of movies with Caspar. Had about ten breakdowns a week about graduating. Drank a lot. Then I interviewed Wim Wenders in person and everything was okay because that was probably the greatest thing that could ever happen (you know, besides him putting me in one of his films, duh). So that was nice.
Lots of work, lots of work, lots of drinks, lots of drinks. Somehow still managed to be the highest functioning hot mess ever. Had a very nice, very relaxing Thanksgiving in Jersey. Got my senior work proposal rejected about 100 times and continued my mental decline into December.
Forgot how to sleep. Attempted to make some more short films. Pretty much wore the same thing every single day. Wrote a lot. Finished my play, which was supposed to a 20-minute one act and instead turned into a 1 1/2 long play. Began to fall in love with the wonder that is solitude, writing, and whiskey. Made some big whoops mistakes. Interviewed Another Earth director, Mike Cahill, which was probably the best conversation I’ve ever had with a human let alone a human that attractive. Somehow managed to finish finals and come home for the holiday with $3 to my name. And since have been spending most of my time wandering around town and hanging out with a socially inept baby Jeff Goldblum.
in my bathtub. with an empty house. and five bottles of champagne. is there some way to watch a movie in the tub. can i get my computer a scuba suit? maybe i’ll throw in some orbison’s greatest hits for good measure with my tears.
still don’t know what i’m getting. i sense a lot of frustration tears and yelling at my father in a public place. maybe a temper tantrum because i don’t know how to decide which socks to wear let alone dealing with a monetary purchase.