Ok, it's time.
I've been searching for a new apartment since the beginning of December. And just like my unmotivated job search before I found my current job, it's been on and off. But now it is ON. Instead of searching for roommates in occupied places, I'm going to find my own apartment and be the one to choose a roommate. Unfortunately I can't afford a studio or a 1-bedroom (unless I want to live in somebody's closet).
We've all had the "roommate from hell." My first nightmarish roommate was in the college dorm freshman year, and aside from the fact that she was insanely homesick, had absolutely no personality and was addicted to the Sci-Fi channel, the main reason I couldn't stand her was that she was dis-gus-ting. I don't think she even owned soap. When me and my suitemate (and future best friend) opened her wardrobe one weekend when she was back home because we thought she had the Windex (I know, what were we thinking), we were horrified to not only find a pile of laundry clear from bottom to top, but a two-foot stack of food-encrusted dishes that had been collecting since the beginning of the semester. Keep in mind, I had to inhabit the same room with this girl. So one night, my revolting roommate ordered a pizza and left the box in the middle of the floor in the suite (after carelessly spilling garlic sauce on my polar bear slippers). My suitemate and I decided to try a little experiment with said pizza box. It was quite simple; we just waited for her to clean it up. Days and days passed. Weeks. We even have the notorious pizza box in the background of candid pictures taken in the room. It was there so long we were starting to think that she forgot it was hers to begin with. The box was there for about a month (in the exact same place on the floor) when we finally couldn't stand it anymore. Me and my suitemate ended up discarding it.
Sometimes I feel like I'm back in college with pizza box girl with my current roommates. To clarify, there are two of them, a couple, which is probably the first mistake I made moving in here. It's like I'm a permanent third wheel and outsider. Regardless of the issue, they always are on the same side and gang up on me. So I try to avoid confrontation. Most of the time I am living with her while he is off at college in another state (I'm going to refrain from using names). She's a messy, workaholic hoarder and he's an over-opinionated, know-it-all with anger management problems. I'm sure that describes a lot of people so let me give you the details.
The kitchen is in a permanent state of disarray, unless I break down and clean their messes. They don't believe in a thing called hand washing dishes. Fine, but it doesn't work when they can't put the dishes in the dish washer either. How rude is it to force your vegan roommate (me) to wash your cheese-encrusted pans and scrape bacon grease off the stove? Fucking rude. The concept of cleaning crumbs and spills off counter tops is foreign to them. Plastic containers, tupperware, dishes, pans, all just sit in or around the sink for days and I'm god damn sick and tired of it. There's garlic hanging from the ceiling that the roommates got from a job on a farm this summer. It's rotting and gross, but apparently watching TV is always a higher priority. They have the cat litter box in the kitchen and litter is always spilled by the back door. I'm always the one who has to sweep because they never will. She leaves her waffle maker out to cool, doesn't clean it, cat hair covers it, she puts it away, and uses it the next time without cleaning it. Would you like some waffle with your cat hair? The kitchen table is never actually used for eating off of. It's just a place where their junk collects. The junk changes over time, but it's always covered with something. Even under the table is a clutter zone. And don't even think about sitting on one of the chairs in this apartment unless you want a layer of cat fur sticking to your ass.
She thinks cleaning the bathroom means dropping a blue thing in the toilet. Ever heard of elbow grease? I'm the only one who has ever cleaned the toilet, shower, sink, mirrors or rugs. Recently I discovered a large hole in the wall below the light fixture (the view was obstructed by the medicine cabinet) and another on the side of the sink cabinet fixture. They've been living here for two years and never thought to get that fixed? Jesus. To top off our classy bathroom, we have a kitty litter bucket as a garbage can and a makeshift cardboard thingy over the toilet paper roll (supposedly to keep cats from playing with the tp, though I've never seen them go near it). And she brought home random tp from a public restroom to use in our apartment. I'm truly at a loss for words.
The living room can be summed up in a few phrases: dragon paraphernalia, a mooning Santa doll out all-year round, layers of dust, what my roommates call "snot rags" on the coffee table (aka snot-filled paper towels), ugly cat furniture picked up from the curb (blocking the hallway), an ugly ottoman (aka pillow attached to a stool with a belt), and more clutter than anyone could possibly deal with.
She does laundry maybe once a month and he hauls his laundry here so she can do it for him. He doesn't do laundry. Give me a fucking break. She doesn't cook and only eats that cheap instant dinner crap that comes in a box. Just add milk and enjoy! She does not eat vegetables. EVER. All she eats is meat, dairy and carbohydrates. It's an earth conscience, farmer's market-going, vegan's nightmare. She laughs like a hyena, he burps so loud you can practically taste it, and they are all proud of themselves when they clear their plates at dinner (all three portions worth).
They're uber sensitive (don't even think about engaging in the nature act of chewing in front of him), obsessed with "things" (I threw out dirty, wet plastic bags from underneath our sink when it leaked and she rescued all of them from the trash), wearing the same underwear for four days (the fact that I even saw them in their boxers is enough). They're your roommates! Ok, unfortunately they are my roommates and I am ready to fucking blow a fuse if I don't get out of here soon.
Maybe some of you are thinking, it's' not that bad. But let me just mention for the record that this building is enough of a shit hole already (it's most likely being torn down come August) without throwing in unclean, apathetic roommates. And it's less an issue about the physical messiness and more about their attitude and the way they always twist things to make me sound bad. Did I tell you about our fly infestation? That's a whole 'nother post...To sum up, the place is cheap, falling apart, ugly, there's no privacy and the basement gives me the creeps when I do laundry (every week thank you very much). This apartment is a nightmare for someone who values a little style and simplicity, a calming haven to call home, cleanliness, and a pest, cat fur and meat-free environment (we often have dead mice in the fridge for her large snake collection, yummy!).
So I think it's clear, my New Year's resolution is to find a new place and be moved in by mid-Februrary. Ready. Set. Go!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Xmas Grinch
I'm the family Grinch when it comes to the holidays, particularly Christmas (which I prefer to write as "xmas" and thus, will do from here on out). I'm not sure when it all started, but it couldn't have been more than a few years ago. I think it has something to do with my rejection of all things religious and/or my distaste for consumerism and/or participating in wonky family traditions. Maybe it was when I found out that the whole Santa Claus thing was just a big hoax played on unsuspecting children and that the clunking of reindeer hooves on the roof we all heard were more akin to delusions than a team of magical mammalian sleigh-pullers.
The whole xmas thing feels like one big game, hopping around from store to store searching for just the right gifts for the people on our endless lists while trying not to get into a fender bender in the crowded, icy parking lots full of crazies who come out of the woodwork only for this seasonal spectacle. The sales and "come-ons," the ridiculously cheery ads, the family obligations, the redundant xmas music assaulting us everywhere we go, forking out money for wrapping paper, bows and gift tags that are just going to end up in a landfill. It's all mind-boggling, really. But there's no way of escaping the holiday potlucks at work, gaudy xmas decorations or being on the receiving end of luke-warm holiday greetings. I often fantasize about going on a two-month hiatus starting from the day after Thanksgiving (hell, the day before Thanksgiving) up until mid January. That way, by the time I get back, the decorations would be put away for the year, desserts consumed, music off the airwaves and seasonal aisles would be stocking up for the next holiday created by Hallmark. Hey, I might still see a stray discarded pine tree on the curb, but I could deal with that.
I could spend hours bitching about the holidays and why I loathe them, but I'm surprisingly not in all that of a bitchy mood. And for all the bad things I just wrote about xmas, there is one simple pleasure that I can enjoy at this time of the year--wrapping presents--which is why I have no problem helping out with a gift wrapping fundraiser for the wildlife center where I volunteer. There's something wonderful about neatly packaged items, folding the corners just right, and the intellectually stimulating atmosphere of a bookstore. I could do without people shoving merry xmases down my throat, but that's just to be expected.
Getting paid to wrap a few simple gifts (especially nicely shaped books) seems a bit off to me. But we are providing a service and I guess a lot of people just don't have the mad skillz necessary for gift wrapping perfection. Some customers even ask if we had to take a gift wrapping class prior to our fundraiser. Um, no. But let me whip up a resume of all my years of wrapping family gifts and I'm sure you'll see that I'm more than qualified. Since I usually had the most free-time from holiday obligations, I became the default family gift-wrapper. My mom would be off in the kitchen furiously baking pumpkin breads and addressing last-minute xmas cards while my dad would be watching TV (a vital holiday task for any self-proclaimed couch potato), so I would be left rummaging through everyone else's gifts in a tangle of paper, ribbon and tape. I always knew what everyone else was getting and even though I never once peaked at my own gifts in the process of wrapping, I could always guess exactly what I was getting too. My guessing ability became the stuff of holiday urban legend in our household. Without fail, no matter how my mom disguised my presents, I took a guess at what they were, opened the box and voila, I'm some kind of anti-xmas psychic wunderkind.
Alas (that word always makes me think of Dumbledore...), my holiday shopping has come to an end. For the remaining six days till xmas I can rest easy knowing that I don't have to be one of those poor assholes caught up in last-minute holiday shopping panic (oh, how I have been there before). I'll just sit back (but not too far--IKEA furniture can be fickle) and admire my neatly wrapped and packaged gifts sitting on top of my bookshelf. And come xmas, the Grinch will be back in town and all you jolly, sugar cookie-pushing, carol-singing, ugly sweater-wearing holiday fanatics better watch your back. You might just get buried in two feet of that white xmas snow you're always dreaming about. Try commuting back to your real lives in that mess.
The whole xmas thing feels like one big game, hopping around from store to store searching for just the right gifts for the people on our endless lists while trying not to get into a fender bender in the crowded, icy parking lots full of crazies who come out of the woodwork only for this seasonal spectacle. The sales and "come-ons," the ridiculously cheery ads, the family obligations, the redundant xmas music assaulting us everywhere we go, forking out money for wrapping paper, bows and gift tags that are just going to end up in a landfill. It's all mind-boggling, really. But there's no way of escaping the holiday potlucks at work, gaudy xmas decorations or being on the receiving end of luke-warm holiday greetings. I often fantasize about going on a two-month hiatus starting from the day after Thanksgiving (hell, the day before Thanksgiving) up until mid January. That way, by the time I get back, the decorations would be put away for the year, desserts consumed, music off the airwaves and seasonal aisles would be stocking up for the next holiday created by Hallmark. Hey, I might still see a stray discarded pine tree on the curb, but I could deal with that.
I could spend hours bitching about the holidays and why I loathe them, but I'm surprisingly not in all that of a bitchy mood. And for all the bad things I just wrote about xmas, there is one simple pleasure that I can enjoy at this time of the year--wrapping presents--which is why I have no problem helping out with a gift wrapping fundraiser for the wildlife center where I volunteer. There's something wonderful about neatly packaged items, folding the corners just right, and the intellectually stimulating atmosphere of a bookstore. I could do without people shoving merry xmases down my throat, but that's just to be expected.
Getting paid to wrap a few simple gifts (especially nicely shaped books) seems a bit off to me. But we are providing a service and I guess a lot of people just don't have the mad skillz necessary for gift wrapping perfection. Some customers even ask if we had to take a gift wrapping class prior to our fundraiser. Um, no. But let me whip up a resume of all my years of wrapping family gifts and I'm sure you'll see that I'm more than qualified. Since I usually had the most free-time from holiday obligations, I became the default family gift-wrapper. My mom would be off in the kitchen furiously baking pumpkin breads and addressing last-minute xmas cards while my dad would be watching TV (a vital holiday task for any self-proclaimed couch potato), so I would be left rummaging through everyone else's gifts in a tangle of paper, ribbon and tape. I always knew what everyone else was getting and even though I never once peaked at my own gifts in the process of wrapping, I could always guess exactly what I was getting too. My guessing ability became the stuff of holiday urban legend in our household. Without fail, no matter how my mom disguised my presents, I took a guess at what they were, opened the box and voila, I'm some kind of anti-xmas psychic wunderkind.
Alas (that word always makes me think of Dumbledore...), my holiday shopping has come to an end. For the remaining six days till xmas I can rest easy knowing that I don't have to be one of those poor assholes caught up in last-minute holiday shopping panic (oh, how I have been there before). I'll just sit back (but not too far--IKEA furniture can be fickle) and admire my neatly wrapped and packaged gifts sitting on top of my bookshelf. And come xmas, the Grinch will be back in town and all you jolly, sugar cookie-pushing, carol-singing, ugly sweater-wearing holiday fanatics better watch your back. You might just get buried in two feet of that white xmas snow you're always dreaming about. Try commuting back to your real lives in that mess.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
An Introduction
Recently, I signed up for what I thought was a creative writing class that would provoke new ways for getting the writing process started and filtering through accumulated ideas and long forgotten characters. In other words, provide a remedy for the dreaded “writers block.” It did no such thing. In fact, the class focused around “combining” sappy haikus, Shakespeare quotes and historical events to create silly, childish hybrid stories fraught with clichés and oozing with mawkish sentiment. This was supposed to spark good writing. I made an effort to attend a grand total of three out of five classes, ditching one to go to a Dave Eggers event (totally worth it) and the other out of sheer contempt.
Before I headed out for the first class, still optimistic with the possibilities, I was a bit contemplative about why it is I write in the first place. But when I really thought about it, I realized that most of time I do not actually write anything at all. It feels like a chronic sickness, a wound that reopens, bleeding onto the pages, and then scabbing over until I tear the new, fragile skin once again. And what comes from such a process are mere fragments, ideas and characters so broken and misplaced that all they do is linger on the page, cursor blinking relentlessly, always waiting for something else to produce itself, make the words flow like poetry, the characters seem interesting, likeable, the plot to unfold and transition.
Sometimes I’m reserved to the fact that my stories and characters can really only live their most vivid and fullest in my head, not on paper. And definitely not in a full-length novel. But I push and pull and fight, frustrated and overpowered by my inability to make them real to anyone but myself. I have so much to relate, to connect, but I can’t orchestrate my brain and hands to make thoughts, images and personalities, noise and mind chatter into life on paper. It all comes out dead. Like I’ve “written” a great speech in my head, infused with passion and emotion, the tone and mood perfect, everything beautiful and smooth. And when I’m finished, I must sit in front of a computer and try to spit the whole thing back out through my fingers. Somehow it’s always one step forward, two steps back, and then another step right into a bottomless hole.
But this blog isn’t about the writing process or providing a place to post my fragmented work.
Not too long ago, my best friend (and only close friend) stopped talking to me because she said I was treating her like she was my therapist. It’s nothing new really, but I guess she just reached a point where she no longer could help me, offer any more advice or deal with my problems. I understand her frustration and know exactly what it’s like to be in her position, because I was once her springboard for rants and a person she could lay out all her problems to. But I’ve reached my own breaking point where I can no longer accept uncertainty and unanswered questions. And no one is listening.
My own personal hell started in college with depression. But even before then, I was paralyzed by severe social anxiety and never truly fit in with my peers. After almost four years of depression, including one and a half on medication, I thought I had reached a neutral state of existence. I had accomplished moving to a new city and attaining an internship and later a decent job. I became a full-fledged vegan. Thanks to people like Eckhart Tolle, Ethan Nichtern and Charles Eisenstein, I felt I had reached a higher level of human consciousness and began seeing the world for what it really was. But new symptoms (and old) started creeping into my life. Unanswered questions nagged once again and a full-on identity crisis loomed. How could I make sense of it all?
No diagnosis or disorder fits, just as I don’t fit into this world. And it’s not about changing myself to try and fit in, it’s about trying to figure out who I am in the first place and force the world to make room for me. The symptoms are many (emptiness, unreality, binge eating, anger, mood swings, lucid dreaming, crying spells, dysfunctional personality, low self-esteem, inability to make and keep friends, loneliness, forgetfulness, suicidal thoughts, trouble concentrating, social anxiety, low blood pressure, asexuality, unstable self-image, misanthropy, pessimism, inability to love, lack of motivation) but the answers are few. Therapists (and I have seen my fair share) often retreat into the mysterious abyss of childhood to try and solve your heavy afflictions. Though I don’t remember a thing before the age of six or what I was feeling during my adolescence (unfortunately I didn’t keep a journal), my childhood and teenagehood memories are all fairly pleasant. And aside from slightly emotionally distant parents, I was loved and well-cared for in a stable home environment. I don’t know where this leaves me today. Still searching for the unattainable “why?”
So I turn to writing to cope with my myriad of issues even though mostly, I still can’t write anything of any consequence. Underneath, my heart beats like a good writer, but there is nothing for me to give right now. And wasting money on shitty writing classes only fuels my anger and frustration. Though I cannot turn off my obsessive and overwhelming thoughts, I can easily get lost in a movie to find some kind of relief, if only for a few hours. But distractions are only temporary solutions to a larger puzzle.
I’ve taken a stab at vlogging on youtube, but I’m painfully afraid of cameras and it all feels terrifically awkward (especially when I can’t find the right words). I think this blog will provide a place for me to express some of my thoughts, rant to complete strangers since I’ve scared away all my real friends, and ultimately help me connect with others who may know exactly where I’m coming from. Or maybe not. Perhaps it will be nothing more than the angry musings of a disenchanted, disillusioned, lonely young adult, trying something new to feel real again. Or maybe I'll reach that imaginary somewhere.
Before I headed out for the first class, still optimistic with the possibilities, I was a bit contemplative about why it is I write in the first place. But when I really thought about it, I realized that most of time I do not actually write anything at all. It feels like a chronic sickness, a wound that reopens, bleeding onto the pages, and then scabbing over until I tear the new, fragile skin once again. And what comes from such a process are mere fragments, ideas and characters so broken and misplaced that all they do is linger on the page, cursor blinking relentlessly, always waiting for something else to produce itself, make the words flow like poetry, the characters seem interesting, likeable, the plot to unfold and transition.
Sometimes I’m reserved to the fact that my stories and characters can really only live their most vivid and fullest in my head, not on paper. And definitely not in a full-length novel. But I push and pull and fight, frustrated and overpowered by my inability to make them real to anyone but myself. I have so much to relate, to connect, but I can’t orchestrate my brain and hands to make thoughts, images and personalities, noise and mind chatter into life on paper. It all comes out dead. Like I’ve “written” a great speech in my head, infused with passion and emotion, the tone and mood perfect, everything beautiful and smooth. And when I’m finished, I must sit in front of a computer and try to spit the whole thing back out through my fingers. Somehow it’s always one step forward, two steps back, and then another step right into a bottomless hole.
But this blog isn’t about the writing process or providing a place to post my fragmented work.
Not too long ago, my best friend (and only close friend) stopped talking to me because she said I was treating her like she was my therapist. It’s nothing new really, but I guess she just reached a point where she no longer could help me, offer any more advice or deal with my problems. I understand her frustration and know exactly what it’s like to be in her position, because I was once her springboard for rants and a person she could lay out all her problems to. But I’ve reached my own breaking point where I can no longer accept uncertainty and unanswered questions. And no one is listening.
My own personal hell started in college with depression. But even before then, I was paralyzed by severe social anxiety and never truly fit in with my peers. After almost four years of depression, including one and a half on medication, I thought I had reached a neutral state of existence. I had accomplished moving to a new city and attaining an internship and later a decent job. I became a full-fledged vegan. Thanks to people like Eckhart Tolle, Ethan Nichtern and Charles Eisenstein, I felt I had reached a higher level of human consciousness and began seeing the world for what it really was. But new symptoms (and old) started creeping into my life. Unanswered questions nagged once again and a full-on identity crisis loomed. How could I make sense of it all?
No diagnosis or disorder fits, just as I don’t fit into this world. And it’s not about changing myself to try and fit in, it’s about trying to figure out who I am in the first place and force the world to make room for me. The symptoms are many (emptiness, unreality, binge eating, anger, mood swings, lucid dreaming, crying spells, dysfunctional personality, low self-esteem, inability to make and keep friends, loneliness, forgetfulness, suicidal thoughts, trouble concentrating, social anxiety, low blood pressure, asexuality, unstable self-image, misanthropy, pessimism, inability to love, lack of motivation) but the answers are few. Therapists (and I have seen my fair share) often retreat into the mysterious abyss of childhood to try and solve your heavy afflictions. Though I don’t remember a thing before the age of six or what I was feeling during my adolescence (unfortunately I didn’t keep a journal), my childhood and teenagehood memories are all fairly pleasant. And aside from slightly emotionally distant parents, I was loved and well-cared for in a stable home environment. I don’t know where this leaves me today. Still searching for the unattainable “why?”
So I turn to writing to cope with my myriad of issues even though mostly, I still can’t write anything of any consequence. Underneath, my heart beats like a good writer, but there is nothing for me to give right now. And wasting money on shitty writing classes only fuels my anger and frustration. Though I cannot turn off my obsessive and overwhelming thoughts, I can easily get lost in a movie to find some kind of relief, if only for a few hours. But distractions are only temporary solutions to a larger puzzle.
I’ve taken a stab at vlogging on youtube, but I’m painfully afraid of cameras and it all feels terrifically awkward (especially when I can’t find the right words). I think this blog will provide a place for me to express some of my thoughts, rant to complete strangers since I’ve scared away all my real friends, and ultimately help me connect with others who may know exactly where I’m coming from. Or maybe not. Perhaps it will be nothing more than the angry musings of a disenchanted, disillusioned, lonely young adult, trying something new to feel real again. Or maybe I'll reach that imaginary somewhere.
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