I've been trying really hard to keep myself busy, or else I'm going to curl up in a ball and just be a depressed loser. Not that being a depressed loser isn't incredibly sexy, it's just that I already have a line of men a mile long waiting outside my door for a little bit of my time and I don't want to exacerbate the situation by being even more attractive.

Ultimately, moving across the country sucks. And not just because you're away from everything you know. I am fortunate (or unfortunate enough, I'm not sure yet), to move to a place where I have some kind of support system in place already. So when that support system changes, even a little bit, that becomes incredibly difficult to deal with. I just need normal.

It almost feels like the people that are supposed to love me here love me better when I was 2000 miles away. Which sounds emo and ridiculous to even type, but a little part of me wonders if it's not true. Things were easier with me farther away because there was a little bit more distance between me and my bullshit.

That being said?

They can fucking suck it up.

I'm here now, I live here now and they will either make me a part of their lives and fucking get over it or they can eat shit.

There's no nice way to tell people you love that as weird as this is for them, it's infinitely weirder for me and I'm the one who needs support right now. I've been keeping myself super busy, but at some point there's going to be some down time and I'd prefer to not lose my shit the first time I have a weekend to myself.

It could just be me trying to ward off what is going to most likely be soul crushing depression, but right now I'm starting to lean towards angry, and I don't like it.

I am twenty nine years old and I showed up to work today with a hickey.

Well it wasn't so much one hickey as it was a grouping of them, a set of teeth marks and a black and blue earlobe. 

The issue here would be that I somehow didn't notice any of them until someone at work asked me what happened. What exactly do you say to that? 

I got hammered this weekend and the rest is none of your business? 

I know that you pay me a retarded amount of money but I can't manage to come in without looking like I was somehow attacked by a runaway vacuum cleaner? 

I'm in a weird vulnerable spot and I have a thing for boys with shaggy hair?

Sometimes you just need a good looking guy to tell you that you're pretty and bite you on the neck?

I got into a bar fight and they fought dirty?

If you're me, you just look at the person asking, blink twice and walk away. It's better than the "I'm a drunken whore" defense, which is really all I've got at this point.

I think I'm broken

I hate writing sometimes.

I really do.

A lot of other mediums allow for some kind of social interaction. Writing really isn't one of them. Not that I'm knocking people who can socialize while doing their thing, it just so happens that writing isn't really one of those things.

At the end of the day, I wind up sitting alone in a room with my laptop, trying to pick one idea out of the millions of thoughts that run through my head. There's never a clear idea, it's mostly abstract shapes, half formed ideas, and the occasional snippet of a sentence.

What people seem to miss is that even though my writing tends to be funny, it's still incredibly painful. Every time I write, I'm ripping the stitches on something. Every joke comes from a little bit of pain, disappointment, sadness, rejection, heartbreak or missed opportunity. The logical choice would be to simply not write.

For someone like me that isn't an option. I might not update my blog every day, but I do write everyday. Otherwise, the same thoughts just swirl in my head and chip away at me until I can hardly function. There are days that no matter how hard I try I can't get the thoughts out on paper. The problem is just by trying all of those thoughts wind up front and center, but there's absolutely no abreaction because my words just won't work.

Those days are the worst. How do you explain to the people around you that you're 2000 miles from home and kind of a mess because the one outlet you have from the stress of the move, relationship issues and new job rips the stitches on things you didn't know you felt anymore? How do you tell someone that you can't eat, you can't sleep and you just kind of need someone who gets it?

There are days when I would kill just to have someone sit next to me on the couch while I tried to string words together into thoughts that make some sort of sense. This is one of those days. It's all I can do not to curl up in a ball on my floor and cry.

The problem with writing is how easy it is to get stuck in your own head. It's even harder when you don't have anyone to shake you out of it every once in awhile and remind you that you're not broken.

You can't take me anywhere

I've decided I want to do everything in the world. And if I have to do it by myself, I have to do it by myself. This sucks, but hopefully it's a situation that takes care of itself.

Because of this, I got to go to a very exclusive party in a very exclusive place with very successful, notable and beautiful people tonight. I also got to go to it alone. My current situation notwithstanding, I probably would've wound up by myself there anyway, mostly because the people I gravitate towards would rather chop off their own testicles than go to some red carpet bullshit party.

So I got poured into some ridiculous dress, propped up on some crazy tall heels and let loose into a super exclusive party full of people way out of my league. It's the same scene every time...coke in the bathroom, alcohol everywhere, more drugs than I can even name, incredibly expensive clothing and really shitty music.

You can imagine how well I fit in.

The thing with me though...give me high enough heels, some of those drugs and that alcohol and I can fake it long enough to get by.

Despite my ability to blend in, at the end of the day I'm still myself.

This poses a problem.

This poses a bigger problem if I'm already feeling vulnerable.

I was meandering to the bar, chit chatting and making small talk with people I have jack shit in common with when I heard a snapping noise. I kept walking. There wasn't a drink in my hand and come hell or high water something good will happen this week and I'm not positive that little shred of good isn't hiding at the bottom of a bottle.

I heard the snapping again.

I kept walking.

That's when I heard the whistle.

I stopped mid stride and stood there just for a second. There's no way anyone at this party would be whistling at me. Unless they maybe thought I worked there and they needed a drink, but not for any other reason.

I heard it again, immediately followed by a "Hey! Dollface!"

I turned around to see a gorgeous man in a very expensive suit staring at me. Brown hair, gorgeous brown eyes and a resemblance to Robert Downey Jr. that made me look twice. Then he smiled at me and proceeded to whistle in my direction again and nod his head in a kind of "come here" gesture.

As it stands, I'm kind of in a weird place. I just want someone to scratch my head, kiss me on the cheek when I have nightmares and watch TV with me. A normal girl would see this man and think "Maybe he could be my head scratcher. And oh, he looks like Robert Fucking Downey Jr. maybe you should give this a whirl, the worst case scenario involves waking up in a penthouse with someone who looks like Robert Downey Jr."

Unfortunately, the girl he was whistling at wasn't normal. The girl he was whistling at was me.

I decided now is as good a time as any to start talking to guys I might want to spend some time with. I very casually wandered over to him, smiled and said nothing. He leaned in, right against my ear and whispered "Dollface. You look stunning. I have a penthouse, you should come see it."

I took a little step back, smiled sweetly and leaned right into him until my lips were almost against his ear whispered "Clare. My name is Clare, not Dollface. I am not a dog. If you whistle at me again, I'll rip your lips right off of your face.", kissed him right on the mouth, turned on my heel and walked away.

I don't know why I don't get invited to more of these things.

It occurs to me that I could be in bed with a gorgeous man that drips money and style. Instead, I'm sitting in the middle of a gigantic bed wearing the worlds most ridiculous dress and eating pizza while watching USA.

Because this is what I do. I ruin everything by threatening to rip people's lips off of their faces.

It's a miracle I'm single, isn't it?

I finally received some good news that I had been waiting for what can only be described as what feels like a fucking eternity for.

Over the last holiday season, I got incredibly sick with pneumonia. Lots of hospital visits, had to stay home for a month...was not in a good place.

After that it was like being treated with kid gloves. There was just stuff I couldn't do, be it because I was uncomfortable in my skin after gaining weight on the steroids or because my doctor was concerned about the environmental factors contributing to my having more breathing issues.

It's been a long road. A lot has fallen apart because of it. I mean, really, who wants to be with someone who can't do anything because everything makes her wheeze? Yes, I was eventually going to get better, but I can see not wanting to wait for that. It was incredibly frustrating. More frustrating for me because I had no choice but to become a spectator in my own life. I watched people I love go hiking, or swimming, or riding on their motorcycles, or whatever else but I could never go.

I'm still not 100% where I should be, and that is annoying. It's like...climbing Mount Everest, getting to the top and seeing a flight of stairs labeled "To the top". It's the ultimate middle finger.

That being said...I am better. I finally got the clearance to do a few of the things I've wanted to do for a long time now. Like ride motorcycles, go hiking (depending on the day and whether or not I have enough inhalers) and work out again.

There are still things I want to do that are absolutely out of the question for the time being. Skydiving, for example, is out. I won't be running any marathons any time soon. However, I can run again. You know, if my car was broken, someone was chasing me and there was absolutely no other alternative.

But it's kind of a hollow victory at this point. The 7 months or so of not being able to do anything has already taken such a huge toll on my relationships I'm not sure there's any turning back from that. The same people I want to call and tell the good news got sick of waiting for me a long time ago. You can't blame them really. After being told "I'm sorry, I still can't" enough times, people just stop asking. They find someone who can.

That's what breaks my heart the most. That it was such a fight and by the end of it I feel like I've no one to share it with. I might not have been public about how hard it was getting better...but it was hard. It is hard. It's exhausting. There were days I sat in my shower and cried because I didn't have the energy to even wash my hair. It's partially my fault because I did it alone, but there was nothing anyone could've possibly done to help me with it.

I was getting better partially for me and partially for the people I wanted to share parts of my life with. It makes me incredibly sad that people who were waiting for me to go hiking, ride on their motorcycle, or go for a jog (shut up, it could happen) got tired and wrote me off a long time ago. I certainly don't blame them.

I know that it wasn't for nothing, but it kind of feels like it. How do you call those people, even if you see them a lot, and say "I wish I could do everything on earth with you"? You just can't.

An incredible artist I know named Raven once said "art saves my life".

Writing saves mine.

So that's why I'm telling you guys. I know it's not the typical hilarious Clare that you expect, but I needed to share it with someone before I get all tangled up in my words again.  

So it took exactly 3 weeks for my life to turn into a massive cluster fuck.

I guess I really just don't get it. I don't feel like airing my issues on the internet, but god dammit sometimes I'm such a fucking asshole.

I'm one of those people who fights for the good things in my life. Whether or not they turn out well for me is an entirely different story, but I fight like hell for them because I don't think anything worth having is ever easy.

This becomes a problem when people involved in the situation have the exact opposite mentality.

It becomes a gigantic fucking problem when I realize that there's nothing I can do to change the situation because no one will let me, and all I see is what could've been if I was given a fair shot.

It becomes a gigantic fucking problem, when you combine all of these factors. Because the same thing happens to me every time.

I talk.

And I know what you're probably thinking. That this sounds like a situation where talking is a good thing.

That's because you're wrong.

Because what happens is too much starts swirling in my head. I start processing every experience, every conversation and pretty much everything that ever happened in the history of the world as it relates to this, and then inevitably someone asks me a question.

And because I'm a jackass who can't remember that other people can't actually hear what's going on inside my head, I tend to answer those questions with responses that sound shitty because there's no context for the other person to draw from. Then I wind up writing blog posts at 1:49 AM on a school night trying to hash out my thoughts when I really should've done that before I opened my big fucking mouth.

So the moral of this story?

I shouldn't be allowed to talk.

It's been a few weeks since I've been in California, and there are a few things about living here that I just don't understand. And because I can't sleep, I'm going to list them out here. 

1. Turn signals.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an idiot. I understand the concept of turn signals. What I don't understand is how it is possible I've been pulled over as many times as I have for not using them. In Chicago, you will most likely never be pulled over for not using your turn signal. Perhaps in combination with other offenses, like transporting a kilo of cocaine with a handful of hookers while speeding and not using your turn signal, sure. But solely because you didn't signal before switching lanes? Never would happen. However, if you go three miles over the speed limit in Chicago, they will pull you over almost immediately. 

In California? Apparently you can drive 120 miles an hour as long as you use your left blinker. 

I don't get it and it's about to get very expensive for me if I can't train myself to use my turn signal. And it's gotten so bad that one of the last times I left Chris's house, I didn't get "Drive safe" or "See you tomorrow" or "God, you are the sexiest chick I've ever met and every time I even think of you I'm so overcome with lust I can't contain myself and it's resulted in socially devastating but hilarious situations I'll let you write about some day*". I got "Use your turn signal". 

2. Mind readers.

I touched on this in my last post, so I won't say much here. However, the next person who presumes to know what is going on in my head is getting slapped in the mouth. If they know what I'm thinking they should see it coming. 

3. Medical marijuana

I understand the concept of medical Marijuana. What I don't understand is where it comes from. Not in a "how does it get from the plant to the bong" kind of way. More in the "I don't smoke pot, so I am entirely confused how I woke up and there was a shit load of weed on my coffee table". I've asked my friends, it doesn't belong to any of them. It's like the pot fairy showed up and left me a present. Which would be nice if a) I smoked weed and b) I didn't have pneumonia. 

3b. Medical marijuana joints

Apparently they make pre rolled joints. Like, you show up and they hand you a little joint in a baggie. Which just baffles me that it's someone's job to roll joints all day. How do you even apply for that? 

3c. Dispensaries 

I didn't even know this was a thing. In Chicago we call them "dealers". 

4. Pneumonia 

I was in California less than 10 days before I had to go to the hospital. The night before I was watching Game of Thrones and Chris pointed out that I was feverish. I immediately blew him off because I have been warm exactly 3 times in my entire life. As usual, he was right. (Which by the way? The frequency of his being right is nothing short of absolutely infuriating because it usually means I'm wrong.) The next day my boss sent me home early because, and I quote "You sound like crap". One trip to the ER later and I'm told I have pneumonia. 

Which raises the question.

Who the fuck moves to California and gets pneumonia?! My lungs fail at not sucking. 

5. Sunburns

The first thing I did upon moving here was get the most ridiculous sunburn in the history of the world. Wait. That's not fair. 

The first thing I did was play with a hot guy and then God punished me for being a filthy sinner by giving me the world's most asinine sunburn. 

Somehow this sunburn covered my chest, half of one of my shoulders and only most of my face. It got the front of my arms, up to the elbow, where it decided fuck it, and narrowed into a stripe on each arm. I look absolutely flipping ridiculous. The only upside is that I begged the guy who took my ID picture at work to photoshop some of the sun burn out. He felt so bad for me he did it. He didn't think it was cute when I asked him to make me look like Angelina Jolie, though. 

What I don't understand the most? I was out that day with people who have skin tones about as pale as mine. None of them even seemed to notice the sun was out. Bullshit, I say.

6. People who think I look like Elizabeth Taylor.

No fewer than 7 people in the past 3 days have told me that I look like a young Elizabeth Taylor. While this is  a great compliment because she was holy-shit-so-smoking-hot, I'm pretty sure that I kind of...don't. I mean I can see a resemblance with the hair and skin tone, but I'm pretty sure if I looked like her I'd be too busy staring at myself in the mirror to type this. 

7. Pastels

I'm not big on pastel colors. My friend Alexis swears that I will start wearing more of them the longer I live here. I will move back to Chicago before that happens. 

8. Why everyone who hears I'm from Chicago immediately asks me how I miss the snow.

Every. Single. Time. I don't know how I miss the snow...it's May. I've lived here for five minutes. Ask me in December and I might get a little misty because it's Christmas and if it doesn't snow maybe Santa won't come, but until then? You should probably be asking me how much I miss tornadoes. 

There are a few things that are the same I guess. Namely, me writing pointless blog posts at midnight when I have to work in the morning. Good to know some things never change. 

*What? Isn't it every girl's dream to have a guy say that to her? Just me? Seriously? 

So I live in California now.

It's only really been a week, so I shouldn't be so quick to say that I love it here. But so far, I do. The new job is interesting, and it seems like it's going to be crazy challenging. Everything else is kind of shaking out, and it's all working out pretty well for me.

Except one thing.

Quite a few of the people here seem to think that they know what is best for everyone. Which is normal human nature, people have a hard time stepping outside of themselves to see things the way another person would.

The problem here?

The people here have no problem telling you that they know what is best for you. The amount of people here who have had the testicular fortitude to tell me things about myself that they think I should know after meeting me once, for at most a few hours, is nothing short of staggering.

It's driving me crazy.

I've had people who don't know me from anyone else tell me things I should be doing, that they know what I'm thinking, or even more obnoxious, their opinion on what I think, despite my never having told them what I think.

The next person who tells me, after seeing me pick up something with gluten in it, that I should absolutely go gluten free because it would be so good for me, is going to spend the rest of their night removing my foot from their ass.

I'm sure that it's just a weird culture difference between here and Chicago, but holy fuck me is it annoying. The truth is, if quite a few of these people knew what I was thinking or how I actually felt, very few of them would be brave enough to continue to stand within my reach while telling me what I think.

I caught lunch with a good friend who I met in Chicago who now lives in San Francisco and it was amazingly refreshing to spend some time with someone who isn't judging me, or presuming to know what I'm thinking. The thing is? She knows me well enough that she could tell me what I was thinking, and probably be spot on. And the reason she's my friend? Is because she wouldn't.

That being said, if this is the only thing I hate, I will either learn to live with it, or simply stop associating with people who do it. But it's so prevalent that it shocked me.

But, so far so good. Most of the people I've met are freaking amazing.

Minus the ones that keep picking me up. I don't know how that's a thing now but that's a different post for a different time.

And thanks everyone for all the support during the move!

I hate TV shows. Movies, too

And here is why.

In TV shows, the chunky but lovable main character gets a once in a lifetime opportunity to work at a great company, say in...Cupertino, California.

In the TV show, this girl would move to California from Chicago, there would be some happy going away party where no one cried, and she would land in California and immediately be given a pretty new car and a boyfriend with 16 inch biceps.

In reality, they don't tell you that once in a lifetime opportunities come along and when they do they happen fast.

I am currently on a plane, over Denver I believe, headed out to Cupertino California. I live there now. Well, kind of. I don't actually have a permanent place to live yet. I live in the general in a corporate apartment for a month and then maybe with a good friend unless he realizes that I'm a terror to live with and tells me to live in a box.

What they also don't tell you is that leaving a boss that loves you is scary as all hell, and that even with a company bending over backwards to help you, moving sucks.

The biggest lie, however? The going away party. Never in a TV show does the chunky but loveable main character get shit faced drunk and spend the entire night crying into her very tolerant ex-boss' shirt about how she wants to go but doesn't want to leave. They also don't show every single person you've ever met in your entire fucking life coming out of the woodwork for a reference all the sudden.

They also leave out the part where the people you know cry a lot when they see you.

So in short, TV is full of lying liars who lie out of their lying holes.

Despite all the stress though, I think this is a good thing.

I mean I could be totally and hilariously wrong, at which point expect a "WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE TO MY LIFE?!" post, but I get the feeling I'll be OK.

Plus they have Jack in the Box tacos, so ho could this possibly go poorly?