About Me

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Los Angeles, CA, United States
I'm just your average hard rocking, easy going, introspective, dysfunctional, misfit gamer chick bent on world domination.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Memory Lane

I have a rather large collection of books in my possession that has, until now, gone relatively unorganized and unsorted.

Years of moving around before you get a chance to unpack tend to do that to you.

So when my house flooded, and my plans for general organization were thwarted I turned my eyes to my collection of paper tales with the idea of thinning it out and giving some away to the local book drive.

While I have succeeded I have been undergoing a strange sensation while scanning the covers. It's like watching my evolution as a person. From books I loved and read as a child to the recent purchases.

I have a 1948 copy of Dantes Inferno (interesting story behind that), a special edition of The Hobbit from the 70's that my brothers had, my Grandparent's Bible, my dad's Rock books and a book of Poetry from my grade school days that I can still recite.

I have references for writing, acting, cartooning, 9 Alice in Wonderland books (including a few antiques), and 7 Grimms. A copy of the Great and Secret Show by Clive Barker that my brother gave me 10 years ago... before I really knew how much I would fall in love with his work.

There is a definite turn for the dark in my reading over the years, starting with an old copy of the original Scary Stories to tell in the Dark and ending with the most recent Hellraiser comic collection.

Going through your library is a draining and rewarding experience... like picking through your brain. Or looking at the rings on a stump left behind by a felled tree. I see my formation into the person I am today there. I see damage from various floods, fading from the son, discoloration in books nearly 100 years old... It's all here in print.

I would hate for physical copies of books to phase out. It would be such a blow to our culture.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Happy 5 years.

Nothing wrecks your heart like remembering the bad times.

I do remember the good times, I really do... but the bad times are what made me who I am. Because when you grow up with two brother who do heroin (among other things), parents who are divorced (shortly after they adopted you. Know it's not my fault... but that knowledge is hard won) and a family that is unable to cope at times... it's those bad times that really stand out.

I cherish every second I got to play softball with my dad and basketball with my brothers, but what I remember the most was being woken up at 2am to go bail my big brother out of jail. I love every smile that big brother gave me but it doesn't change who i am and what I've seen and heard. They had problems and like it or not I grew up with those problems as my own. Or at least as part of my day to day life. I might not have done the drugs but I grew up with them looming over me.

It hurts when I think about. But without it... I would be a rotten person. I take a lot of granted still and I act like I'm an air head a lot of the time. But in all honesty if I can't joke about things and see what good came out of spending my childhood worrying about if I would ever see my family together again I think I would spend my adult life crying about it.

One day about ten years ago I was told my brothers had overdosed and died... but were revived. They overdosed together in a hotel room that is now just barely down the street from where my two best friends live. The next two years were both the hardest and best of my life. Best because I finally saw them healthy; struggling but healthy and worst because just getting out of elementary school I had to be the one to comfort my family. And I had to grow up and do that fast.

When I see my brothers (One is 5 years sober this Wednesday and the other is 11years sober in July) I thank the paramedics that saved their life every time I see them smile. I my parents for joking with me about it and teaching me to see a lighter side. I even thank the counselors and teachers at school... because even though I don't feel they made a huge difference they gave me another way to cope and a bit of backbone.

I feel older than I am. Much older, but that's because I saw rock bottom and knew what it felt like to lose everything before I was stepped foot in junior high. My first memories are of a broken home that I desperately wanted to keep together. I watched my parents cry when they didn't realize I could see it and I held them when they did.

I spent years of my life in NA and AA meetings watching every person regret missing time with their family and recall things I was told by men that probably died years ago. I lived through things nobody should ever have to see or hear.

And I did it all with a smile.

Yes I hurt because of this and it made me who I am today. I'm 24 years old and this defines me as much as any happy memory I have... if not more so.

But right now... I'm just a happy little sister that is thrilled to see her oldest brother reach 5 years sober tomorrow. A little sister who counts herself lucky that she didn't turn a blind eye when he showed up intoxicated to lunch a little over 5 years ago and who intervened with her family to see him go back to rehab.

He's a stronger person than I could ever be, even if we had to help him reach that point. And I love both of my big brothers for fighting to see the day that I dyed my hair pink and my dad shrugged it off and told me "Your brothers were worse."

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Even in death...

I had a thought while conversing with a friend about his Grandmothers memorial service. I joke about the insane thing I would do at my wedding... which is funny and all that, (and really it would be memorable. I'll tell you about it sometime.) but somehow it's not as important to me as how I'm remembered.

I realized, in the grand scheme of how my remains are dealt with when I'm dead and gone I want to be cremated and my ashes spread in the same place as my Grandfather.

But most importantly I want to pick the music playlist for my memorial. I dont' care about ANYTHING else. I hope that my friends and relatives tell the most insane goofy stories about me they can possible tell. I dont care if it mildly insults my memory. People better remember me for all those times I made them laugh.

In the grand scheme of things though... I don't want my memorial ruined by shitty music. I don't think I'm nearly as afraid of my own death as I am about people misunderstanding what sort of music best represents me. Because really, if you can't judge a person by their favorite songs what can you judge them by?

Thursday, January 5, 2012

I'm "THAT" person....

Sometimes I wish I made up half the stuff I tell people about...

Honestly I think it's because I'm so ADHD. I blame that. I listen to everything around me and can't focus on one person or thing so I hear a lot of stuff i think most people wouldn't pay attention to.

Today: I call up my hair place. I get a lot of pretty intense stuff done to my hair so I prefer to put it in the hands of professionals. I tried my hand at my own hair and realized I just can't do it... so it's on them.

The girl answers the phone in that super chipper excited voice (you know like the Progressive commercials... except this Flo is blonde with a fake tan) and proceeds with the voice until she asks what I'm getting done. "It's the girl with the pink hair"

"Oh." Deadpan. From "I took mommy's prozzak" to "who killed my pupppy" in 7 words.

I don't think they dont like me... I think their clients aren't fond of me and the conversations we have while I'm in the salon. Not my fault... they ask and i have no shame!

At least I know I've reached that point where referring to either my hair or eye make up gets instant recognition.

Monday, December 5, 2011

What the hell happened to my generation?


I hereby disown everyone in my age group and I'm going to go claim myself as 40 years old on some government paper somewhere so that my advice is taken seriously. I'm 24, I'm not allowed to have life experience!

Honestly I blame the cartoons we grew up on. Have you watched any of our Saturday morning cartoons lately? Go look at an episode of Animaniacs or Bobby's World and tell me that isn't just years of therapy waiting to happen.

That coupled with a day in age where OVER sharing information is commonplace and people value all 400 members of their facebook as 'friends' because they are there.... and you get a rather nasty sort of breed of people in my generation.

I have advice for all of you.

Wrap your dicks, close your legs, review psychologic evaluations of your partners before you marry them and get a god damned job. When you're done with that go buy the nearest DVD of your favorite Saturday morning cartoon and go watch it again.

I'm pretty sure the Ninja Turtles didn't tell you that the Government was going to pay for you for the rest of your life.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

I swear I'm not as crazy as I look.... maybe I am.

When I was 16 years old I started working at a haunted house that belonged to a friend of my mother.

The gentleman took his own house, money out of his own pocket and turned it into a spooky walkthrough (short but bordering on scary enough to compete with any paid haunted house). A lot of his props remained part of his decor through the year. Being one of those gothy type people has that advantage.

When you walked into his living room on any ordinary day of the year after Halloween you would find hand made coffin as the coffee table (coffin-table get it?) and if you were so inclined as to inspect it's insides... yes it was lined, cushioned, comfortable and functional if you needed a place to crash for the night.

If you looked in his living room (or back yard, garage, side yard, bedroom, front lawn...) any weekend of the weeks leading up to Halloween you were likely to find me and a few others with severed body parts, bones and skulls in hand prepping them for their use in that years haunted house. Sometimes smeared in red paint (I still have a pair of sneakers covered in it), sometimes chasing each other around with said paint, maybe forming or painting skulls or in most cases eagerly creating, prepping and painting large displays of human intestines to hang on the walls. I have photos of them somewhere.

At 16 years old I told my father, "When I have my own house I want a coffin table I can use as an extra bed." I also told him I wanted a collection of lifelike human limbs used as candlabras, faux (and real) bones formed into pieces of entertainment ware and bed knobs and (my personal favorite) a severed head placed on my dinner table with the cranium hollowed out and used to house a flower bouquet. At the time I imagined the Christopher Walken head from Sleepy Hollow. Because who doesn't want to severed prop head of Christopher-FUCKING-Walken watching them eat breakfast with a few daisies sticking out of his forehead.

More importantly: I wanted to make these things. I wanted to create horror movie props and make up that was so lifelike the neighborhood kids would never forget how terrified they were.

My dad, ever supporting told me that if I still wanted all that when I was older and had a house (that wasn't his) to put it in it would be cool. But also told me it was just a phase.

Today I am 24 years old, going on 25. I traveled around a little bit and soaked up all the knowledge and did all the sight-seeing and absorbing I could for few years.

I still want that coffin table and collections of prop body parts in my closet, I still want a workshop to create life like severed heads in and I'm still fascinated with putting on one hell of a horror show.

I talk excitedly about making that severed head flower pot, and have expanded my wishes to include several different flower pots (all a different severed head of course). I want to get drunk and curl up in my coffin-table and create picture frames with the same human intestines on them that I used to decorate the walls of the haunt with.

And this week I finally got the "okay" to go to school for it and stop doing it out of my own personal make up box and prop bin. This week my dad admitted that it is not a phase and I really am just THAT weird.

No I don't want a house that looks like a slaughter house. I want a totally normal house with a few out of place decorations that make people do a double take before they realize it's a part of my art.

At this age I'm also smart enough to realize that no matter where I go... my neighbors are going to hate me. I'll make sure to give out the big candy bars to anyone brave enough to get within 10 feet of my house on Halloween.