Disclaimer...
Only read if you are in a bad mood.
Seriously…
don’t read if you are feelin’ good.
Ok, now really,
this might bring you down.
Maybe you can find a nugget of inspiration. I certainly laughed out loud after I read this, but that's just me.
The nuggets are there like Waldo, but I just needed to get this out. No diving or driving off bridges, just venting…

I drive quietly at night, making unique speed I never find in daylight. I remember. I forget. I forget to remember. I remember to forget.

Turn the music up and roll the window down. Of course my favorite dance radio station as evaporated into the ether while I was gone and I’m left to elitist pop and hip hop. White guys singing about pain. Black guys singing about money. Androgynous girls filled with hope and I can’t identify.

I feel the air, only familiar in Los Angeles. Hot and dry as I zoom through the zip codes. I near my own and let the cool salt air spin my hair into a beautiful mess. No one’s lookin’. Sing! No one’s listening.

I close my eyes for one count, two count, three and hope my memory can follow the curves of Sunset Boulevard without a peek. It’s not as scary as I think. Nothing is as scary as I think… thought.

I light a fake cigarette in my hand and breathe deeply. I exhale sea circles, turn right, then left, red, then green, stop, go, speed, slow.

What can I say? I’m home.

Today. It was a good day. I went through it, like nothing happened and yet, I feel like everyone can tell. I feel like I look different.

You know, like when you lost your virginity, except nowhere near as cool. Ok, bad comparison.

Starbucks is filled with beautiful people. Heck, CVS is filled with beautiful people…even in the Valley and I feel small.

I despise when people compare NY to LA. What for. Can you really.

And here I am…

At least in NY, you can wear your misery on your sleeve and people get it.

It’s raining. I have blisters on my blisters. I missed my train. It’s freezing out but hot as hell underground waiting with the hundreds of others that missed their train because the line at Starbucks was too long, but caffeine is imperative and the girl in front of you needed to clarify her medium to Grande, non-fat to skinny. It doesn’t matter LA or NY, at Starbucks you need to have your lines down. And you are late. And miserable and it’s ok. ‘Cause everyone else is and even if they aren’t, it’s ok, because the sky looks like it will open up soon, so everything around you is…miserable. There’s magic in misery. There’s company.

In LA, the sun is always shining, leaving you no permission to feel anything other than…sunny, happy, perfect.

Right now I feel like the day after New Years in New York….the city is hung over and hurting. Naked Christmas trees with dried pine needles and sparse tinsel pathetically line every curbside. Tourists have gone home and the bright twinkles that bounced off white snow turn to dark, dull, invisible slush that you can feel on every toe even when wearing your trendy Burberry boots. It’s so cold you can feel it in your arteries.

I feel like the trees. I feel like the slush. I feel like the boots. The arteries.

And I sit at Starbucks drinking my properly rehearsed latte and I ache.

I ache for the home that I know is right here inside my heart, but I can’t feel. I’ve got no bars, disconnected, dead zone, breaking up, can’t hear you. Can’t.

I wanna feel…something.

I know it doesn’t lie in where I am. But I can play the death card for a little while longer, can’t I. Pity me. Poor me. Poor orphan. Ok, well, not quite. Fatherless child in her mid 30’s. When are you done mourning? Seriously, is there an alarm that will alert me on my Blackberry? Is there an ap for that?

Misery loves company. I won’t be here to long. I promise. But I need to get it out.

I don’t want to talk to friends about it. What the heck does one say? I wouldn’t know what to say. But blog, dear blog, you have always been here for me with unconditional love, like a puppy without the mess.

Perhaps, I shall post an ad on match.com asking if anyone would like to meet someone to bitch with. Bright and cute 30 something independent girl seeks to meet someone for coffee and bitch with for an hour over full-fat venti lattes and never see them again.

I wonder if there would be any takers.

I wonder if anyone would reply to misery in need of a little company.

I don’t care what you look like or how much money you make. I don’t care if you pay, you smell, if you are married or if you have a lazy eye.

Just listen. I’ll listen and we’ll be on our way.

Complain about anything you’d like. I won’t judge. I go first.

Everything sucks, absolutely and completely.

I wonder.

I don’t hate my life. Quite the opposite. I love what I do. I love where I am. I love the people in my life. I just don’t want the people I know to hear this from me. Read it, ok.

I get paid to inspire and lift up, but this shit has to go somewhere and there are only so many downward dogs and seated meditation with mantra I can do.

It’s gotta come out.

Death is a dark subject no one likes to talk about.

I wonder.

I don’t wanna talk about it. I wanna talk about it. I don’t want to see anyone. I need company. I want to run. I want to sleep.
I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to be mute and not talk for a full day or two or three. Why did I pick up the phone? You mean the world to me, but I feel like warmed over ass on a freezing day without a parka. I feel like how you feel like a bloomin’ onion without the sauce. I feel like how you feel after eating a bloomin’ onion but never actually taking a bite and enjoying it. I feel the way you feel after missing a great moment, a great shot with your camera, a green light when you are late, when you have to pee and there’s no bathroom or potential bathroom in site. I feel like when you hear a great song and it hasn’t hit iTunes or won’t because it will never be released. I feel like a great yoga class without a long sivasana…I worked f-ing hard to get here, don’t deprive me of sivasana!! I feel like when you lose your job, a role, a love, and a life. I feel like how you feel when you take off in a plane and you always feel like you are doing the leaving. I feel like I’m always leaving. I feel left. I feel like I’m on the tarmac for hours in the heat of recycled air and farts people don’t think I can smell. I feel like I’m at a really good play sitting next to someone wearing a ton of toxic perfume and I can’t focus on the story or the acting or the music because the perfume is taking over my experience. I feel like I’m stuck in traffic all the time. I feel constipated in body and mind. I feel like babies are screaming in my head all the time and they are not cute. I feel like I stepped in dog poop in my expensive shoes. I feel like I spilled coffee on my white top. I feel like a wet sandwich or cookie. I feel like a chocolate melted in the sun. I feel like a swollen finger with a ring wound tightly round. I feel like a yell with no sound. I feel like a lost tourist in Asia with no map or hope of and English speaking guide to turn me in the right direction. I feel like when you fall and scab your knee and there’s no one there to help you clean it up and bandage it. I feel like I’m out of time and I have no watch. I feel like my car is moving but the tires are flat. I feel like carbs. I feel like I look like carbs. I feel nauseated like sitting in the back of a cab in Paris or a boat in the sea. I feel like Detroit and I’ve never been. No, I feel like Elizabeth, NJ. I feel like pollution. I feel like tax day. I feel overdrawn, underpaid and hungry. I feel like curdled milk, laundry and a parking ticket. I feel like my name pronounced or spelled incorrectly. I feel like silverfish. I feel like unwashed hair. I feel like a bad Lifetime movie. I feel like burnt popcorn. I feel like sand in your crotch. I feel nothing. I feel so much. I feel better.

Misery loves company.

Thank you.