Wednesday, April 19, 2006


I've had an emotionally grueling two weeks for many reasons, ones I do not currently wish to discuss. My insomnia is at an absolute horrible high. I've barely slept since landing in Los Angeles over two weeks ago. This pattern continued in San Francisco and doesn't look like it will end before I get on another plane back to London on Friday. After I proceeded to 'Fuck the pain away' (and still am), I decided to channel all my emotional turmoil and psycho stress into intense physical activity, becoming the Fittest Man in San Francisco. I always feel like an Olympian every time I climb the hills of this city. After just a week of hardcore jogging, running and sprinting, I think I've climbed every mountain across the Golden Gate bridge. I know every block of this city and refuse to climb the baby hills, instead opting to punish myself by climbing the mammoth ones. My entire body hurts but it feels better than everything in my head and heart.

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You know how sometimes you hear a song on the radio or in a bar that's so fucking catchy, so annoyingly poppy and irritatingly wonderful that you can't help but love it? But you can't tell any of your friends that this song makes you feel good because when you hear it from a car radio or a lounge DJ, you feel like you and your friends are in an episode of 'The OC' or 'Beverly Hills, 90210'? But you still can't help but go buy the CD at Virgin Megastore, but in order to overcome your embarrassment of purchasing such a shit CD from a singer who can only sing three chords, that you purchase three additional CDs that you don't even want or need? I am not listening to Natasha Bedingfield's 'Unwritten' on repeat right now.

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My sister and her homo friend were in town for the long Easter weekend. About a year ago, when my sister and I traveled to and arrived in Barcelona, our taxi dropped us off in the city centre since we sort of neglected to remember our hotel address. Sistaman stepped out of the taxi, handed her Louis Vuitton bags to a Spanish teenager, announced, "Here Jose," and turned to me and said, "These Mexican kids are so nice."
"Did you know we're in Spain?" I asked.
"Same thing," she said before ordering a martini from the boy and digging through her purse for some painkillers.
I beamed in a combination of pride and embarrassment.

When my sister arrived on Thursday morning, my phenomenal girlfriend Julia (as in the Julia with whom I was attached at the hip for a year in London) came over to meet her. Sistaman walked through the door with a champagne glass she had taken from her First Class airplane ride. Julia said nervously, "Hi. I'm Julia. I meant to bring you a martini this morning but I forgot. You can still make fun of me if you want to, though."

Julia no longer thinks that I am Karen Walker, instead opting to compare this character to Sistaman. I have been demoted, but only a little. It's okay, though. After not living in America for 2.5 years, I barely know what materialism, capitalism and consumerism are anymore. I live out of suitcases for fuck's sake. I'm in three-to-five countries per month.

The entire entertaining weekend was spent with Sistaman, her cycnical homo friend, Awesome, Julia, and Sistaman's wealthy French ex-boyfriend. When most people go to Napa or Sonoma, they manage to get in about three vineyards per day. For Sistaman, Cynical Homo, and me, though, our Friday in Sonoma and Saturday in Napa were cutthroat sporting events. And we won. We really, really won. We went to eight vineyards each day. No reader of this website is surprised, though, I'm sure.

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We're trying to decide whether or not to move back to New York together and continue the planned affair we started three years ago. We've almost made it. Will I stay in London? Will he stay in San Francisco? Will New York be the answer? Will New York even work, or were we young idiots when we made this plan 2.5 years ago?

From across the room he watches me sip from my giant coffee mug (it's my 8th cup) and type ferociously on my laptop. I'm in my low-waist-hanging karate pajama pants and a children's thrift store t-shirt. My bedhead is everywhere. I look five. My legs are curled underneath my body in a small chair and my head bobs up and down to the cheesy song on my i-Pod. He knows I don't care who watches me, who's around, apathetic to what's happening outside my own little world. This is one of the sights he fell deeply in love with in my Brooklyn apartment almost three years ago. He told me I was his idol. I told him he couldn't date his idol, that he needed to humanize me, that I'm not a trophy, that I'm not perfect, that I can fuck-up as much as everyone on earth. He told me that I was perfect and I said I'd never live up to that expectation because I know better. He watches me across the room now, wondering why I'm not perfect, realizing that I'm not a diety, and wondering what will happen next. He is disappointed that I am not a mythical god who will save him from all his fears and insecurities, and now that he's out of his Northeastern comfort zone, questions if he still loves me. (We're talking high school friends, college friends, all of them - they all moved to the big bad city together...I don't understand...I can't...I always did it myself...only myself, no support group...I've never been in my comfort zone). I grew up when I was 18, all alone, everywhere, whoring and wounding my emotions and psychosis everywhere, without a support group. Why must I coach someone else? I'm now a too-numb twenty-seven-year-old 42-year-old. Does this mean I must be with someone who is 50 instead of my real age?

I watch him drift in an out of sleep on the sofa, his big sloppy eyelids opening and closing over his beautiful blue eyes. He's a mess. He always has been, he always will be. Will I commit to a mess? Can I commit to a mess? Do I still love this mess? I originally fell in love with this extremely well-intentioned, sweet, and brave disarray of personality quirks and quibbles. Is it okay to think this way? His thin dark hair is strewn across his pronounced forehead; his long fingers occasionally traipse over his long legs; his bones are collapsed into a pile of supreme, natural relaxation that I have never and probably will never experience. He looks like firewood, burning across the room into an ashy pile of himself - pretty fire, pretty fire, pretty fire. I am jealous of his ability to relax and fall asleep at will. His ability to turn off his brain. He loses everything, he breaks everything, he forgets everything. But he loves me. He's not as tender and comforting as he once was. But he loves me. I think.

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London moves on without me. How dare It. Moments after my flight lands on Saturday, I will interview Tom Cruise about 'Mission Impossible 3' at a press junket. I've not interviewed him before; he's fucking odd, though, I'm betting, but he is one of the big, 'necessary' celebs I suppose I should meet during my career. Tuesday night I'll work the 'MI3' premiere. Sunday I'm going with a group of my Brit friends to watch my nutty friend Edwin run the London a three-piece suit. It's a gimmick, and I hope he doesn't sweat to death. I plan to hand him cans of Guinness as he runs by.

Nothing impresses me right now. I really wish something would. Something, anything, needs to happen.

My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them. - Jack Kerouac