That long-awaited update,

This is something I'm working on right now, a piece of the long process of a longer short story. This is called "The Public Restroom Heaviness."

The panic crept up and surprised her even when she expected it. June’s moods were unbearable. Pink tidal waves of feeling rose up from her diaphragm, into her chest and throat.  

It always happened in public, where it’s never easy finding a restroom. Restaurants, among the easiest venues, still aren’t guaranteed to grant sanctuary. You find yourself walking around the back of a restaurant, servers passing you without making eye contact, you’re craning your neck for a hallway, confused. What else would a person wandering around the back of a restaurant be looking for? June didn’t ask for help. It was better to hold in the question, she thought, to just keep walking and looking for hallways.  

In these moments of panic, before her heart started knocking against the walls of her chest, when it was still a small ball of heat inside her belly, she would retreat to the bathroom. It seemed the safest place, something about the warm water and the cold tiles served some positive purpose. She tried to take care of herself.  

So this was the third time this week, the third bathroom stall panic attack, only this time she was at a rock climbing gym. Ray’s gym. Ray drove them in his green station wagon. He bought June a bagel and coffee on the way and called it a date. Ray slung his equipment bag over his shoulder and walked into the gym first, June followed.   

She stood idly by the door while Ray checked them in at the front desk. June couldn’t keep her hands still or decide which way to stand. Ray rented her a large child-sized harness but was off by a half-size with the shoes. June stuffed her dirty sneakers into an open cubby and followed Ray onto the big blue mats.  

June could already feel the heaviness. Butts of people hung over her head and muscled spiders scaled the walls way too easily. June half-gripped a knobby neon handhold and thought she wasn’t the right type of child for this. You got this, voices echoed. She kept losing track of Ray in the mix of all the earth-toned-synthetic fabric. Ray knew everybody; sometimes his smile would flash at her through the crowd. June stood quietly and kept moving out of the way.  

Then something happened. June was locked behind a stainless-steel stall door. With her yoga pants pooled at her ankles she sat on the toilet and rocked her upper body forwards and backwards. June heard women talking, changing their clothes, washing their hands, and snapping their hair into ponytails. June cried with her mouth closed.  

She kept a hand pressed against her chest in these moments. While her heart and lungs were pumping out of control she pressed down on that weight to keep it all inside, to keep herself from spilling out. In for three, hold for three, exhale for three.  

Her sweaty socks left footprints on the cold concrete floor. Her toes began to feel cold. She’d ripped off those rental shoes in a hurry. 

Look at that cat checking up on me. 

Suddenly it's winter time!

Hello, look at that handsome cat! Here is a sample from the story I am hoping to finish this semester. June is our delightfully neurotic main character, read on to see how she handles failing a drug test at her office job:


(Beat.)          

June's boss Helen had a gay son on Broadway. Helen took long weekends whenever he was in anything. Those were June's favorite Fridays. Last year Helen brought Broadway Charlie to the company Christmas party. When Helen introduced them, June was drunk already. She couldn't understand his words so she laughed and offered him a limp hand. His grip was confident. June knew she’d never be anybody.
     Helen approached June's desk on a Friday.
     “Do you have a minute to talk?”
     June nodded.
     “Come on back to the conference room when you're ready,” said Helen.
     June stood up and followed too close behind Helen. The conference room had the nicest chairs, with real wood detailing. Helen and June sat on opposite ends. Helen placed the thin manila folder she’d been carrying down on the table between them.
     “I assume you know what this is about.”
     June nodded.
     “Do you have anything for me?”
     June shook her head.
     “We gave you the week to come forward with prescriptions. Was the company's policy on drugs not made clear to you at orientation? The random screenings are just how we do it here.”
     “I can’t sleep.”
     “This is serious, June. It makes me so sad, a young woman like you with ambitions.” Helen furrowed her brows and placed her tiny ringed hands flat on the table. June felt her gaze but traced the real wood pattern between them.
     “I quit,” said June. “I quit.”
     “June, we’re letting you go. It’s a disease. I understand addiction and I care about your future, so I would be happy to recommend you for another position after treatment. My son's friend had a really great experience at the Estragon Center upstate.”
     “I’m leaving. I'm packing up my stuff.”
June felt bile rising in her throat. Helen pushed her chair out and extended a hand but June turned and left, closing the conference room door behind her. She walked to the far bathroom and locked herself in the handicap stall. It’s a disease. She stood in front of the toilet and spit a salty yellow glob into the bowl. In for three, hold for three, exhale for three.
     June kept her eyes on the carpet back to her desk. She packed up her thermos and slipped three bundles of pens and two tubes of white out into her purse before walking out the sliding doors.

Workspaces

Something important to note about the bottom picture: the ziplock back in the upper right hand corner is full of cookie crumbs. I guess I'm saving them.

Unnecessary stress is the name of the game. Juggling school and work is becoming increasingly difficult as I enter, what must must must be, my last year of college. The output expected of me is really overwhelming and semi-paralyzing at this early-fall moment. Soon I will write a story about ghosts and a play (probably) about drug addicts. I'll post snippets when I get them okay. I also need to make time to work on the linocuts I so so so enjoy. It's the perfect medium for my artsy but restless hands. I appreciate the tactile experience. And the sharp tools add the element of danger. 

Hangcation 2012

I had the happiest time in Southern California. My favorite parts were swimming in the ocean and eating a soyrizo/french fry burrito. I hope to be able to travel a lot more in the near future. Upon my return to the Bay Area I felt happy I had seen new things and met new people, happy to be returning home to my bed, also sunburnt.

The fall semester starts Monday. I'm looking forward to it, but it will mean that I will have less time to devote to the block printing I have so recently become obsessed with. I hope to finish carving the cover of Space Bear Don't Care soon. No release date projections as of yet. Much more of my time will be spent writing after next week.

MONDAY: Advice/Personal update

SPACE BEAR I DON'T CARE linocut, trial 1.

Unsolicited advice:
- Take heed if you're dating a musician (I mean anyone with a soundcloud obv.): Don't listen laboriously to their lyrics. Call it their art, call it their creative license, don't call it a song about you. If you consider yourself the subject it will immediately feel like a misrepresentation. ("I don't have green eyes!" "Did he just mumble that I'm selfish?") Don't ask questions. And most importantly: Delete all their music from your library immediately after the break-up.
- Walgreens sells really cheap and really discreet personal wipes. The blue package is wallet-sized so buy a couple and throw them in your main bags. After sex clean your lady parts with one of these to avoid the swampy unpleasantness when you inevitably have to go out in public later. Offer one to your partner and prove yourself a true gentleman/gentlewoman. Flushable!
- Ditch people who don't make you feel good about yourself. Let people go when they want to go. Don't be afraid to raise your voice or use bad words.
- Don't tell your therapist everything.

Foggy nights at Outside Lands. 

The undesirables that floated around my bloodstream this weekend at Outside Lands have left me exhausted today. Last week I threw a semi-private tantrum of anxiety about whether I should go one day or three or not at all. These "semi-private tantrum of anxiety" things happen to me before social events. I convince myself I won't have any fun, I'll be miserable, no one I know will be there, no one I like will be there, no one will talk to me, I'll be uninvited, I'll projectile vomit, I'll trip on my feet, the bus will explode. I do this for everything remotely big, I've already started getting flashes of anxiety about my birthday next month. ("No one will show up" "Please not another personal tragedy.") But outside of my head I would rate Friday and Saturday of Outside Lands a 9/10 good time. I deducted 1 good time point for the 28 Muni line.
Top 2 performers: Reggie Watts, Tame Impala

Ride on.

Time Kills.

Today I am doing laundry in preparation for visiting my parents this weekend. So when I get on the train Friday I won't be the girl with a garbage bag of dirty clothes stuffed under her seat. "Well I guess this is growing up." - Blink 182.

I wrote a super relevant song a few days ago. The writing took approximately  ~10 minutes. I spent additional time rewording a few lines for coherence purposes before posting. You could call it a poem because there isn't any music. I feel like it's more of a song.

When was the last time I left the house?
Where do you get your money? 

You never tell me what you think.
You only shower when you stink. 

But I think you're real cute.
When you're drunk you're more nice to me.
I wanna you back in my bed
So we can sleep until three.  

Am I calling you too much?
I know I'm doing stuff wrong.
Where did all my friends go?
Are people hanging out somewhere new? 

Is there anything wrong with functioning addiction?
I'm still on my parent's cell phone plan. 

I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know what I'm doing.

When I sit at work from 9:00 to 5:00 I feel exhausted for the rest of the day. The most physically strenuous part of my day was probably when I delivered some brochure proofs to the Office of International Programs, which is three-quarters of the way across campus. No, nevermind. I ran at a medium-fast speed for a block and a half to catch the bus this morning, all the while holding a waffle in my hand.

The transiency of friendships doesn't have to be something I get upset about. I'm okay and I'm working on linocuts now and messing up my fingers.

Standing in the middle of the road

Clockwise from top left: My desk, the newly obtained roof-top chill-zone, cheers to a job well done with a handsome dude, Spaghetti helping me put together an Ikea side-table this morning.

I've been watching so many episodes of Breaking Bad. I'm writing a funeral scene for the "Frances and Cat" short-story-radio-play-never-ending-nightmare that I've been working on. It's hard starting this stuff, I have to force out the drafts because the tone is such a mega-bummer. I'm trying hard every day to keep my 'tude in check. Because everything really is just fine.