DAMN IT!
I gave it an honest shot to post at least ONCE per month.
I kept October on the back burner because I kept thinking I'd have time for the slightest of updates.
It's not as though October sucked or was boring... quite the fucking contrary, I had too many things going on.
I mean, no, yeah, there were shitty moments, one time I cried so violently (as in, I was sobbing pretty loud and my nose was running as though I had the flu) I freaked out a dog for a minute or two... and I also had a very pathetic moment where I was quietly sobbing on a stoop in DC... but, it was... a lot of fucking shit going on.
Still, considering the number of times I cried in October, it was still a wildly fun month.
The quickness with which time is passing is just... inconvenient.
"Wait, what the fuck did I... what the fuck has happened since July?" I wondered, after realizing I've been driving without proof of insurance since that month (Ooops? And here I boast about not being a criminal).
The haze is back in my life, but I wouldn't necessarily call it depression. I'm having difficulty remembering what exactly I've been up to because events pile up, and I fail to write it all down.
I mean, July was spent trying to squeeze in a quick, last trip to Greece before my brother finished his tour-- didn't happen. August rolled around and that month was spent busy preparing the house for my brother's triumphant return to the States with his Greek buddy. Then September came up out of nowhere and that Hometown trip occurred from thin air... as well as I heard the terrible news about my friend. Then finally October, which had me in Chicago and DC and that was a fucking mess.
The times I've been close to posting something, they weren't happy posts... they were sad, reflective things that make me uneasy.
The haze is lingering, floating around my brain, mostly because of my friend's mom. She's actually why I even made the sudden trip to Chicago and DC.
Due to her weakening health, my friend's mom can no longer travel (she lives in LA). I've made it my mission to show her as much as I can, despite the fact that posting on FB makes me cringe because... it fucks with my nerves. I've posted videos and photos to her page of all of her grandkid's birthday parties... parties to which I've gone despite having zero children and zero ability to make smalltalk with parents (so I go about rough-housing with the kids as though I'm some fucking clown... all in the name of not having to participate in adult conversation). She praises my photography and my traveling spirit... she says it helps take her places in her mind.
One of her "final wishes" was to see the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture out in DC, because she herself lived some fucked up shit being a white woman who married an African-American man in the early '70's. Tickets are sold out until March of next year, and she doesn't feel confident she'll make it to that month, and if she does, is sure she will be in an even worse state to travel so far.
SO, I sucked up the irritation I feel when I know I'm going to get accused of humble-bragging, purchased a couple of last-minute plane tickets, aaaand I posted on FB.
Of course, I didn't mention the truth behind the trip... so the whole thing was a heavier burden than I expected to feel.
First of all, I went about my DC days in complete solitude (DAYS, my nights were a fucking shitshow... the most fucking entertaining, soul-recharging shitshow I've had in years). My brother works weird hours, so I wouldn't get to see him in the mornings. He's also barely getting all of his belongings returned from storage... so his apartment is full of boxes... no food... a total bachelor pad that gave me the most depressing vibe of loneliness. Here I go about my day at the fucking crack of dawn to get into the NMAAHC on their daypass... which is something like 100 a day that are given out, first come, first serve basis. There I was in line at 8AM, hair still dripping wet, in the shadow of the gorgeous museum... ONLY person there without a companion.
I actually scored my ticket, with something like 25 left... I've never been so stoked about something as I was about scoring this fucking golden ticket. The problem was that since it was only 9:30AM, I had until 2:45PM to be allowed entrance.
SO I walked all over the monuments... and checked out their free museums until then.
This didn't make me sad at all. I enjoy my own company... and the weather was motherfucking GORGEOUS.
It wasn't until I entered the museum that I realized I was about to be in for a world of hurt.
I cried throughout the entire lower levels (aka the beginning of slavery through the civil rights movement), and I had goosebumps the entire visit. The information was hard to ingest... despite being a history buff (laugh if you'd like... but I've killed this subject since grade school), I was not prepared to share the moment with people who have such a deep, personal connection with the subject... that horrible subject. It was difficult to look people in the eyes... to see their hurt... it was so very hard. Even harder was capturing any of it through my phone... because it felt so inappropriate... like I was interrupting such a private moment for OTHERS.
However, I tried my best to see it all... to give everything the respect it deserved... and I captured as much of it for my friends.
Knowing I was seeing this, experiencing this for someone who is going to... die... soon... was also responsible for my tears. It was strange... it felt so strange... to be aware of that... it was heavy.
"Wait, why the hell did you come here so abruptly, and for such a short period of time?" asked my brother. All I could give him was a shrug and an "I fucking love DC. I'm going to an event for the last Presidential Debate... and I'm going to worm my way into the NMAAHC at all costs." Completely unable to add the real reason of "my friend is dying and wants to see this." It sounds like a fucking movie script.
SO, I do this until I literally get kicked out of the museum at closing time (not before helping a disabled veteran out of the museum who was getting zero help from anyone. That bummed me out to watch), and I walk out to the Mall and sit down at a bench to watch the sunset in complete silence... soaking in all of these fucking emotions. Before complete darkness, I headed back home-- Capitol Hill... my brother literally lives three streetlights away from the nation's capitol... on Capitol street... it's fucking amazing (we're little Mexican-Americans from the Vegas hood... never ever did we even dream this would happen... fucking ever).
OK, so I do the longass walk home, and sit outside of the main gate to the apartment complex because, while I have the apartment keys, I do not have the key fob for the main entrance. My brother said he was nearby, but encouraged me to walk in behind one of his neighbors. He had told me this same thing the previous night, but I didn't heed the advice because I'm a fucking shy brute. However, this day I was feeling brave, and as I saw a young man walking up the stoop where I had been sitting (KEYS IN HAND, mind you), I stood up and started to walk behind him. Just as I grab the door he had just opened, he grabs hold of the knob and PULLS IT AWAY FROM ME, effectively slamming the motherfucking door in my face.
It was at that moment where I reached my breaking point, and I broke out into sobs. Yes, sobs. The door getting slammed in my face felt worse than anything I could have imagined... it... hurt my dignity... it broke down my emotional wall.
This wouldn't have happened if I were a pretty white girl...
The though jumped into my mind and next thing I knew I was sitting on the stoop crying like a pathetic little girl lost at a country fair.
I started to think about ALL the fucked up shit I've had to "suck up" and "deal with." All sort of... mean, racist, heartless, demeaning, embarrassing bullshit I've had to deal with... as a female, as a big girl, as a Mexican... and I fucking lost my mind. I quit. I quit trying to be strong. I quit trying to excuse it.
I. FUCKING. CRIED.
I sat on that stoop... clutching my FUCKING SMITHSONIAN GIFT BAGS full of EXPENSIVE ASS MUSEUM SOUVENIRS... alone... in the dark... looking at the ground, crying... trying not to look "dangerous" or whatever the fuck that dumb piece of shit prick thought I was.
I sat there for about twenty minutes, waiting on my drunk brother... cowering away from any new neighbors who'd show up to open the front door. I heard one person loudly walk up the steps... and I crouched to the smallest form I could get into... refusing to make any eye contact... the person stepping louder.
"Hey!" he said once he opened the front door. I didn't look up.
"HEY!" he said again, louder, more irritated.
I'm going to get kicked off the fucking stoop now, aren't I? Fantastic...
I timidly looked up, trying to look as... nice and calm as possible, to see it was my brother. The moment he made eye-contact with me, I realized he noticed I had been crying... and I KNOW he felt sorry for me... I saw the sadness in his eyes... his stance softened. I noticed the pity he felt the moment he saw the humiliated little girl I had been turned to, sitting on his stoop.
Crying on a stoop is nowhere near as "romantic" as movies make it out to be.
It's heartbreaking. And embarrassing. And pathetic.
After sobbing my way through telling him what had happened that day (I did that thing little kids do when telling their mom about a shitty school day... trying to seem strong but losing their shit once their chin begins to tremble when they start talking about their bully... yeah, I did that, and my brother was my mom), my brother took me out on a walk to some thai restaurant and a famous cupcake shop... where he even ate one, despite how much he hates that shit.
It was a nice walk in the dark... a gorgeous autumn night... with some of the most famous US monuments lit in the foreground.
The emotional weight of this day was... massive. The haze lingered, but only for a few hours. The universe has a way of balancing shit once in a while, and the following night was loaded with adventure and laughter... and a lot of drinking... with a Greek heiress.
So... like I said, a lot of shit happened. October was a crazy adventure.
One minute I'm sobbing in front of a scared dog because I was heartbroken by a lie (not sure I'll elaborate on this story yet, or ever), the next I'm giddy over purchasing tickets to the east coast.
One minute I'm crying my eyes out on a stoop... sobbing and cowering away from people... and the next I was taking care of a drunken, filthy-rich woman (who seemed to be much lonelier than I) who was forcing expensive alcoholic drinks and delicious falafel on me... paying for EVERYTHING because I was taking care of her.
One minute I'm sleeping on a broken couch in a cold living room on a chilly Chicago night, and the next I'm hugging and crying with a 50-something-year old Cubs fan outside of Wrigley minutes after the Cubbies win the pennant.
October was FUCKING CRAZY (FUN and oddly heartbreaking).
I gave it an honest shot to post at least ONCE per month.
I kept October on the back burner because I kept thinking I'd have time for the slightest of updates.
It's not as though October sucked or was boring... quite the fucking contrary, I had too many things going on.
I mean, no, yeah, there were shitty moments, one time I cried so violently (as in, I was sobbing pretty loud and my nose was running as though I had the flu) I freaked out a dog for a minute or two... and I also had a very pathetic moment where I was quietly sobbing on a stoop in DC... but, it was... a lot of fucking shit going on.
Still, considering the number of times I cried in October, it was still a wildly fun month.
The quickness with which time is passing is just... inconvenient.
"Wait, what the fuck did I... what the fuck has happened since July?" I wondered, after realizing I've been driving without proof of insurance since that month (Ooops? And here I boast about not being a criminal).
The haze is back in my life, but I wouldn't necessarily call it depression. I'm having difficulty remembering what exactly I've been up to because events pile up, and I fail to write it all down.
I mean, July was spent trying to squeeze in a quick, last trip to Greece before my brother finished his tour-- didn't happen. August rolled around and that month was spent busy preparing the house for my brother's triumphant return to the States with his Greek buddy. Then September came up out of nowhere and that Hometown trip occurred from thin air... as well as I heard the terrible news about my friend. Then finally October, which had me in Chicago and DC and that was a fucking mess.
The times I've been close to posting something, they weren't happy posts... they were sad, reflective things that make me uneasy.
The haze is lingering, floating around my brain, mostly because of my friend's mom. She's actually why I even made the sudden trip to Chicago and DC.
Due to her weakening health, my friend's mom can no longer travel (she lives in LA). I've made it my mission to show her as much as I can, despite the fact that posting on FB makes me cringe because... it fucks with my nerves. I've posted videos and photos to her page of all of her grandkid's birthday parties... parties to which I've gone despite having zero children and zero ability to make smalltalk with parents (so I go about rough-housing with the kids as though I'm some fucking clown... all in the name of not having to participate in adult conversation). She praises my photography and my traveling spirit... she says it helps take her places in her mind.
One of her "final wishes" was to see the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture out in DC, because she herself lived some fucked up shit being a white woman who married an African-American man in the early '70's. Tickets are sold out until March of next year, and she doesn't feel confident she'll make it to that month, and if she does, is sure she will be in an even worse state to travel so far.
SO, I sucked up the irritation I feel when I know I'm going to get accused of humble-bragging, purchased a couple of last-minute plane tickets, aaaand I posted on FB.
Of course, I didn't mention the truth behind the trip... so the whole thing was a heavier burden than I expected to feel.
First of all, I went about my DC days in complete solitude (DAYS, my nights were a fucking shitshow... the most fucking entertaining, soul-recharging shitshow I've had in years). My brother works weird hours, so I wouldn't get to see him in the mornings. He's also barely getting all of his belongings returned from storage... so his apartment is full of boxes... no food... a total bachelor pad that gave me the most depressing vibe of loneliness. Here I go about my day at the fucking crack of dawn to get into the NMAAHC on their daypass... which is something like 100 a day that are given out, first come, first serve basis. There I was in line at 8AM, hair still dripping wet, in the shadow of the gorgeous museum... ONLY person there without a companion.
I actually scored my ticket, with something like 25 left... I've never been so stoked about something as I was about scoring this fucking golden ticket. The problem was that since it was only 9:30AM, I had until 2:45PM to be allowed entrance.
SO I walked all over the monuments... and checked out their free museums until then.
This didn't make me sad at all. I enjoy my own company... and the weather was motherfucking GORGEOUS.
It wasn't until I entered the museum that I realized I was about to be in for a world of hurt.
I cried throughout the entire lower levels (aka the beginning of slavery through the civil rights movement), and I had goosebumps the entire visit. The information was hard to ingest... despite being a history buff (laugh if you'd like... but I've killed this subject since grade school), I was not prepared to share the moment with people who have such a deep, personal connection with the subject... that horrible subject. It was difficult to look people in the eyes... to see their hurt... it was so very hard. Even harder was capturing any of it through my phone... because it felt so inappropriate... like I was interrupting such a private moment for OTHERS.
However, I tried my best to see it all... to give everything the respect it deserved... and I captured as much of it for my friends.
Knowing I was seeing this, experiencing this for someone who is going to... die... soon... was also responsible for my tears. It was strange... it felt so strange... to be aware of that... it was heavy.
"Wait, why the hell did you come here so abruptly, and for such a short period of time?" asked my brother. All I could give him was a shrug and an "I fucking love DC. I'm going to an event for the last Presidential Debate... and I'm going to worm my way into the NMAAHC at all costs." Completely unable to add the real reason of "my friend is dying and wants to see this." It sounds like a fucking movie script.
SO, I do this until I literally get kicked out of the museum at closing time (not before helping a disabled veteran out of the museum who was getting zero help from anyone. That bummed me out to watch), and I walk out to the Mall and sit down at a bench to watch the sunset in complete silence... soaking in all of these fucking emotions. Before complete darkness, I headed back home-- Capitol Hill... my brother literally lives three streetlights away from the nation's capitol... on Capitol street... it's fucking amazing (we're little Mexican-Americans from the Vegas hood... never ever did we even dream this would happen... fucking ever).
OK, so I do the longass walk home, and sit outside of the main gate to the apartment complex because, while I have the apartment keys, I do not have the key fob for the main entrance. My brother said he was nearby, but encouraged me to walk in behind one of his neighbors. He had told me this same thing the previous night, but I didn't heed the advice because I'm a fucking shy brute. However, this day I was feeling brave, and as I saw a young man walking up the stoop where I had been sitting (KEYS IN HAND, mind you), I stood up and started to walk behind him. Just as I grab the door he had just opened, he grabs hold of the knob and PULLS IT AWAY FROM ME, effectively slamming the motherfucking door in my face.
It was at that moment where I reached my breaking point, and I broke out into sobs. Yes, sobs. The door getting slammed in my face felt worse than anything I could have imagined... it... hurt my dignity... it broke down my emotional wall.
This wouldn't have happened if I were a pretty white girl...
The though jumped into my mind and next thing I knew I was sitting on the stoop crying like a pathetic little girl lost at a country fair.
I started to think about ALL the fucked up shit I've had to "suck up" and "deal with." All sort of... mean, racist, heartless, demeaning, embarrassing bullshit I've had to deal with... as a female, as a big girl, as a Mexican... and I fucking lost my mind. I quit. I quit trying to be strong. I quit trying to excuse it.
I. FUCKING. CRIED.
I sat on that stoop... clutching my FUCKING SMITHSONIAN GIFT BAGS full of EXPENSIVE ASS MUSEUM SOUVENIRS... alone... in the dark... looking at the ground, crying... trying not to look "dangerous" or whatever the fuck that dumb piece of shit prick thought I was.
I sat there for about twenty minutes, waiting on my drunk brother... cowering away from any new neighbors who'd show up to open the front door. I heard one person loudly walk up the steps... and I crouched to the smallest form I could get into... refusing to make any eye contact... the person stepping louder.
"Hey!" he said once he opened the front door. I didn't look up.
"HEY!" he said again, louder, more irritated.
I'm going to get kicked off the fucking stoop now, aren't I? Fantastic...
I timidly looked up, trying to look as... nice and calm as possible, to see it was my brother. The moment he made eye-contact with me, I realized he noticed I had been crying... and I KNOW he felt sorry for me... I saw the sadness in his eyes... his stance softened. I noticed the pity he felt the moment he saw the humiliated little girl I had been turned to, sitting on his stoop.
Crying on a stoop is nowhere near as "romantic" as movies make it out to be.
It's heartbreaking. And embarrassing. And pathetic.
After sobbing my way through telling him what had happened that day (I did that thing little kids do when telling their mom about a shitty school day... trying to seem strong but losing their shit once their chin begins to tremble when they start talking about their bully... yeah, I did that, and my brother was my mom), my brother took me out on a walk to some thai restaurant and a famous cupcake shop... where he even ate one, despite how much he hates that shit.
It was a nice walk in the dark... a gorgeous autumn night... with some of the most famous US monuments lit in the foreground.
The emotional weight of this day was... massive. The haze lingered, but only for a few hours. The universe has a way of balancing shit once in a while, and the following night was loaded with adventure and laughter... and a lot of drinking... with a Greek heiress.
So... like I said, a lot of shit happened. October was a crazy adventure.
One minute I'm sobbing in front of a scared dog because I was heartbroken by a lie (not sure I'll elaborate on this story yet, or ever), the next I'm giddy over purchasing tickets to the east coast.
One minute I'm crying my eyes out on a stoop... sobbing and cowering away from people... and the next I was taking care of a drunken, filthy-rich woman (who seemed to be much lonelier than I) who was forcing expensive alcoholic drinks and delicious falafel on me... paying for EVERYTHING because I was taking care of her.
One minute I'm sleeping on a broken couch in a cold living room on a chilly Chicago night, and the next I'm hugging and crying with a 50-something-year old Cubs fan outside of Wrigley minutes after the Cubbies win the pennant.
October was FUCKING CRAZY (FUN and oddly heartbreaking).
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