Hey – it’s been a while. I start email’s like that now, it’s like; [greeting] “-” [body of email]. It’s quick and to the point not like the comma. The comma is a foreshadowing of something long and possibly unpleasant to read. Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to, writing robotic emails all day long and doing the work of two people. There are days when I’m so stressed out that I just lock up, freeze like a computer screen, and the rainbow pinwheel starts spinning in my mind. Then something snaps and I get this weird glaze over my eyes and start speaking to everyone like a Stepford wife.
So when my job asked us who was taking time off for the holidays I immediately replied to that email: Hey – Abso-freakin’-lutely. No, I don’t have any real travel plans and yes, most of my family live in LA. Why are those the only times when we feel it’s acceptable to take vacation days? How about when you’re so stressed out that you can’t can’t sleep through the night, your weigh fluctuates, your face breaks out, and you have neck and shoulder pains from where you hold your stress. Why don’t we take days off to take a break from that? As bad as all that sounds I still feel like I’m just being dramatic and this is normal, everyone feels like this at work, right? Our jobs and society have us programmed to believe that we need to prove something that we need to kill ourselves in order to be happy. F*ck that! I had a realization the other day after one of my many breakdowns and that realization is that; This. Shit. Doesn’t. Matter. We’re not saving lives here people, it’s just a job, and I hear there’s more of them out there. Oh you didn’t send that email? You were late? You missed that meeting? But did you die though? No.
So yeah, I would have liked to go to the grand canyon with my days off but I also just needed to decompress and get away from work before I had one of those private breakdowns, publicly. And yes, my company is cool as shit, but my job, my job is just shitty.
That was pretty agro but whatevs<—- And yeah, I talk like that sometimes.
I RSVP to a lot of stuff. I probably don’t go to half of the stuff I RSVP for. Actually, I don’t go to most of it. I’m not saying that to brag about how cool my social life is or how popular I am, I say that to illustrate how useless an RSVP is at gauging how many people will attend an event. It’s 2016 there has to be a better way. Like, the government creating time machines exclusively for people to travel to the future to see how many people actually attend their event.
I don’t like RSVP’ing for events because chances are I’m not going to be able to go for reasons outside of my control. Reasons like; work, a conflicting event, traffic, or a new episode of Mr. Robot. Honestly, I hate committing to events because I hate obligation. Once I click ‘will attend’ I’ve sealed my future fate. I like to live in the present moment, the here, the now. What if I’m too tired to go when the day arrives? What if I get invited to a cooler event? What if I don’t find anyone to go with? Or what if I meet my soulmate and he asks me out on a date and I’m like, “Sorry bruh, I can’t go out with you because I RSVP’d this event”? Hey, it could happen. I like to consider myself a bit of a spontaneous planner. Subconsciously, I know I don’t want to go to that event or won’t be able to make it, but I don’t come to that realization till the very last minute. It usually goes something like this;
RANT: The first presidential debate was last night and everyone was watching. Not because everyone was actually interested in hearing a civil and logical debate about the issues, but because everyone wanted to hear all the ridiculous things Donald Trump had to say. Even the people who hate him still want to hear what he has to say because it gives them ammunition for their social media posts.
So no, I didn’t watch the debate. Not because I hate Donald Trump, but because that debate wasn’t meant to give us a clear understanding of where the candidates stood on the issues. That debate was meant encourage even more uninformed opinions. It was like watching a really long Buzzfeed video. I’d rather read the transcript of the debate and highlight the parts where the candidates talked about issues that mattered to me the most and not watch some shit show that was meant to give people something to tweet about. End of Rant.
Anyway, here’s a short list of people who I believe are more qualified than Donald Trump to be president:
I debated on writing this post as I signed an NDA and am legally not allowed to talk about the following experience (in detail). But who cares about laws and authority these days given the state of America….
That moment when you realize your life is too stable to be an artist.
One of my co workers organizes a mini Moth story hour. If you’re not familiar with the Moth, it’s a live/radio show you can catch on NPR or in person. The topics range from seduction to revenge. The goal of our group, aptly titled, “The Cocoon”, is meant to prep you for the actual Moth show. Participants are encouraged to come with stories or just listen in a safe space where food and drinks are provided.
I went to the first Cocoon meeting a month ago and loved hearing all the stories and positive feedback. Which made me pause and thank the universe for bringing me to such an amazing place that supports my creativity. Anyway, I didn’t have a story the first time I came but I decided I would have one the next meeting. I know, I know, who am I? Speaking in public and shit? Sharing personal stories? Big steps. The theme was revenge. So umm, ahem, here goes.
I used to be the crazy girlfriend.
My college boyfriend Vincent, that’s his real name, by the way, cheated on me. Many times. It was one of those crazy relationships everyone has to say they had. Lots of breaks ups and make ups.
The first time I “caught” him was back in 2005, we had only been dating a few months and I would come to LA to see him every weekend because I went to school in San Diego. I was getting ready to head back to San Diego on a Sunday evening when I got a call from Vincent. We had just gotten off the phone so I figured he forgot to tell me something. I pick up the phone and realize he’s butt dialed me. I start to hang up but he’s having a conversation with his friends. The nosey girlfriend in me wanted to know what he was talking about. So against the better judgment I didn’t have at 23, I listened. I listened to him tell his friends how he couldn’t wait to see some girl that night, how he was having a party that night and she’d be all over him and blah,blah,blah…I hung up. I called back to let him know I heard his conversation and that I was done with him. Just like that, months of dating, being in love, etc. I tossed our relationship to the side as if were dirty clothes in my room. He pleaded with me but I was very clear I didn’t want to speak to him ever again. I should have just went home after that, cried on the 2 hour trip home, and maybe missed my 8am class. But I didn’t. For the first time, probably in my whole life, I wanted revenge
I didn’t want to take the high road like I always did, I didn’t want to be the bigger person, like I always was. I wanted to be petty and I wanted to display my anger in a very unhealthy way. So I called a friend who I knew wouldn’t talk me out of what I wanted to do and within an hour I was picking her up along with another friend who couldn’t resist getting revenge, especially on a man.
We get to his house in Long Beach where we park ridiculously too far down the street and case the scene. We knew he was having a party so there could be people coming in and out of the house. But the street seemed quiet. Now was the perfect time. Just run out and do it real quick, no one will see, my irrational friend says. I don’t know, I don’t think I want to do this anymore, I say. The anger was starting to subside and responsible Kiana was starting to come back. What?! You didn’t drag me out of the house for nothing give me the knife, my friend says.
My friend takes the knife, runs up the street, and stealthy pops 2 of Vincent’s recently purchased Mercedes tires. I quickly drive to her and she hops in. I felt like we had just robbed a bank and I was the get away driver. We were all laughing excitedly at what just happened. The anger wasn’t back but my adrenaline was. I needed to vandalize his car as well. So we turn back on his street I run out and decide that instead of finishing off all his tires, I wanted to take the Mercedes hood ornament. I thought about keeping it as a souvenir of the relationship. I mentioned this before, but I was crazy. Anyway, I try to pull the hood ornament off and it’s not budging. After struggling with it for way too long and cutting up my hand pretty bad, I ran back to my car and skirt off. My friends cheer me on as if I was a war hero. Why was I so okay with vandalism, you ask? Because in the mind of a crazy girlfriend, you feel that he deserves it so you’re somehow above the law. Like if the police were to arrive I could just say he butt dialed me talking about another girl, and they’d let me off.
I don’t remember the drive back to San Diego that night I just remember his calls/texts the next day. He told me someone had slashed his tires, I say that’s very unfortunate. He went on to ask if I had done it and without lying I said no, I didn’t do it, also that I was in San Diego last night, which I was. He then second guessed himself and blamed it on the neighbors next door who always called the cops on him and his roommates for playing their music too loudly, a convenient coincidence.
To this day I don’t think he knows it was me. He may have had his speculations but he couldn’t prove anything. I learned a lot from that relationship; how you shouldn’t date anyone you can’t trust, how to love myself before I try to love anyone else, and that Mercedes hood ornaments don’t come off easy.