True Story

I work at a store that sells movies (and not just the $5 bin lame movies but actual hits and box sets and the like) and I was browsing the selection after I'd just clocked out for the day.

Me, to my coworker across the aisle: Man, I really want all the Harry Potter movies but the box set is just too much right now.

Coworker: Ya, I hear that.

Me: I also want all the Star Wars movies.  I don't own any.  I've always dated guys who owned them.  But now, I guess I should buy my own.

Random male customer nearby starts snort laughing which turns into a real hearty laugh.

Me, to the customer: True story!

Where Should I Go?

I don't like being touched by strangers, especially when I'm hot. There are times when everyone is chilling out in the same mental place watching a band and you end up rubbing arms and shoulders and whatever but I'm talking about strangers passing by you, making a path next to you in between you and your friends, and knocking your purse as they pass without any regard.

I find myself relieved to be listening to ignorant and vulgar rap music in the air conditioning over seeing a live band with talent and appeal in the sauna that was the Echo.

Echo park is hard for me. It's been like 5 years since I moved out and left that ex but less than a year since Emily died. And a few weeks ago I ran into my ex's sister here. Just like Covina is hard for me. My recent ex (I don't even like to call him that yet, that's how new and hard it is) knows all the people that work in the craft beer industry.  I don't want to go to Covina, Pomona, Echo park, where am I supposed to go?

What it's like when i try to just sit and do nothing.

It's an itch under my skin that gets worse with each scratch. I fiddle, I twiddle my thumbs. I scratch my palms, alternating hands every couple minutes. My feet never stop reaching for my knees, toes wiggling and grinding together. The dirt under my nails is a constant distraction, almost as much as the tiny cracks along their tips, which lead to my repeatedly tracing the uneven edges with my other finger nails. A hangnail is the bane of my existence sometimes.  The pores on my face itch and cry out to be touched, then weep puss and blood when I do, leaving scabs and scars and shame behind.  I keep looking at my phone and deciding not to bother anybody.  "Why aren't they calling me?" I ask.  Is that a pain in my side and isn't that where the liver is? 

Like is Fleeting

I turn on the computer

Enter my secret passwords

And there you are.

Oh my Facebook friend,

Retweeter,

And Instagram lover.

He "likes" me.

He "likes" me, not.

I think I am in #Like with him.

I hope our Like will last forever.

Then he moves on to Snapchat.

Without me.

Unfriend.