Hey so, it's been a while. I don't know what this blog is to me anymore, but I'm recommitting to it, in the noncommittal way one commits to BLOGS. Feels good to use that word, blog. Blog blog blog! Now that's a word that's seen a lot, in internet years. In language years, the word blog is the amount of time it takes for a single crystal of eye gunk to start forming in your... eyehole area?
Yeesh, that's a pretty terrible way to start off after that long of a hiatus. I'll stop trying to force weird clever little things. People don't like things that are "clever" anymore. Apparently. Actually, people never liked "clever" things to begin with. Being "clever" is apparently like believing in the tooth fairy, it's for children and something that your parents engage in right before they have sex mere feet away.
Just kidding, I never heard my parents having sex. With each other, anyway. Yikes. I never heard my dad banging but I do have vague memories of... well, shit. Should we leave it at that? Actually, no, I don't go to therapy (I want to, I swear) so I might as well lay this out. When I was a kid, probably from like 5th to 7th or 8th grade, I had this strange foreboding fear that my mom was a prostitute. That's normal, right? Every healthy young boy thinks there mom is a prostitute, right? That's normal.
Okay, I just had to switch cars with my housemates. It was a strange time for that to happen, I think my face was a bit flushed when I came out of my room, considering, ya know, the weird shit I was thinking about. I'm sure they thought I was masturbating. Or maybe not. Which provides a nice Freudian slip back into...
SO... I had this relatively unfounded fear of my mom being a prostitute. Here, as an almost 30 year old man who has never gone to therapy, I will try to unpack my 10 year old reasoning:
1) Mom would return from work at the hair salon, then would leave me (my sister was always gone, in memory) at the apartment alone most evenings for more "Work," she would say sometimes. But usually, she would just leave or not come home till late at night. To be fair, she could have actually been working some eyebrow tattoo gigs (she used to do that). In all likelihood, she was probably getting drunk. Maybe fucked, occasionally. I just remember she would return and... I don't know.
2) Mom was constantly, and very outwardly, stressed about making rent. Usually drunk and crying, sometimes just crying, sometimes just drunk. I don't blame her; I can't imagine how alone she must have felt during those times (holy shit I just used a semicolon!!!). All this to say, the idea of getting kicked out was a very real and imminent threat to me, a boy who had moved about maybe 6 or 7 times by this point (its ok, I only remember like half of them). And eventually, we actually did get evicted out of an apartment in Cypress.
3) I was molested a lot. So whatever that entails, too.
Yikes, so far this blog post has been... a clunky attempt to be clever. Immediately followed by an even clunkier attempt to try to place myself above my own stupid, "clever" writing. Pretty bad. Then we got some juicy stuff with me remembering that I used to assume my mom was a sex worker, which is probably not true. It might be. Which was triggered by me remembering that I probably have heard my mom having sex before, but it's not a complete memory, more of a sense memory which is even more disturbing. Yuck.
Sorry sorry sorry. I'm shaking a lot of blog dust off. That is a lot, I know. I've had a real shitty time in this pandemic. Sleep, all time low. Bedroom mess/stank, all time high. Money, all time LOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
The root cause of all this being an inability to find a good housing situation. I'm essentially getting kicked out of my current place in... two weeks? The short version is: I'm a few months behind on rent, I offered to pay about half of it back, then the couple I lived with told me to just keep it (for now) and move out by next month. The long version goes... well, it's a lot. Essentially, my friend- you know I'm really not going to get into it on this post. It really is just a boring, long, sad, stupid story. The gist of it is, we don't get along. Or, I don't get along with my friend's spouse. And also at one point we had... 8 cats in a 2br/1ba house. Along with 3 strays that we fed outside. And I hate my friend for getting into this stupid green card marriage and I hate his stupid Gen Z woke, facebook-commenting, Canadian trust funded bitch of a wife. YEAAAAAAAAH THAT'S RIGHT I SAID IT! I HATE TRUST FUNDS! (that was meant to be some sort of comedic misdirect from my usage of the word "bitch")
I do wish my grandpa made me a trust fund, though. I'd endure the (well-fucking-deserved) ridicule for a little peace of mind. Especially considering how much calcium I've grinded out of my jaw these past few months. Money fucking sucks. Which is probably why my grandpa blew most of his on gambling, flat screens, and massage chairs.
So anyway, I decided to start blogging in here again because of two main reasons:
1) I think I have successfully vented and complained a friend out of my life. (we're part of a group discord, which became our main form of conversation, and he's essentially just burnt out on me, I think). He's probably one of my oldest "LA" friends. I feel bad, I don't blame him. I'm a lot. Imagine getting these sorts of rambling vents pop up as notifications on your phone. Nightmare. I'm not a good friend. I think he views my lack of therapy as an unwillingness to go to therapy, which, I guess from his perspective, it is. Which honestly makes me resentful of him and even therapy, too. So there's this guy who's therapized and self-cared and yet he can't understand the weird paradox I'm going through? He frames that I just don't want it enough. Well I'm sorry that your rock bottom is clearly way higher and softer than mine. I haven't hit mine yet, clearly. Your "rock bottom" was probably when you stubbed your toe on your fucking- Okay, clearly I have issues with this friend. I need to work that out. I clearly do blame him a bit. SO ANYWAY, reason #1 being that I can't burden my "friends" with this bullshit.
2) My current job sucks absolute dogshit. But I do have time to read, or I make the time, anyway. So I've been rereading an archive of Dan Harmon's blog. It really does make me feel better. It gives me hope, that someone so neurotic and toxic like himself can pull himself out of it. At the same time, it's very cathartic for me to read him express some of those dated, toxic, idiotic sentiments and feelings. Cause I'm going through a lot of similar stuff. It's probably not healthy to dwell in that shit, tho, I guess. Also, he's a good writer and it makes me jealous. Although I've neglected the shitballs out this blog, there was a point where this blog was no slouch, either. Relatively speaking, anyway. Harmon's blog is just pure candy to me. I want to be him. He's really like, the peak form of narcissism. I mean that aspirationally. Gross, right? I don't know, I really don't mean that.
Shit, I just remembered my dad sent me a KakaoTalk message like... 4 days ago to call him. I should do that. I just don't really know what we'll talk about.
