I actually wrote this post in my head when I was walking through the city earlier tonight and I think it sounded much better then.  It always sounds so much better in my head when I am outside and thinking freely.  I am never thinking freely though cause inside my head I am a prisoner of my own thoughts.

I think the fact of the matter is that I spend a lot of time trying to calculate who I am in public, so much, that I definitely lose parts of myself in the process.  Part of this is purely survival and part of it’s because I am deeply insecure.

I keep wanting to start all these paragraphs with “I Think” but the fact of the matter is, I actually know these things.  I know that although I go on and on about how I am tough, calculating and cold-hearted I am, I am really soft, sensitive and deeply romantic.  And not in the flowers and fabricated bullshit Valentines day sort of way, but rather, hopeful and dedicated.

When I like someone, I am inclined to do everything I possibly can for them.  But when my feelings turn sour, it really is as though I could kill them any second I am forced to deal with them.  This is both terrifying and complicated because when I kill someone off in my head I can almost never recover to a place where I can see them as anything other than dead.

I am scared of so much but not dying.  Actually, I think dying is the one comfort I have come to rely on.  I think about dying all of the time, which isn’t that surprising given the fact that I have tangoed with death on a myriad of occasions and at this point it’s like a boyfriend I just cannot quit.  Still, I am obsessed with death.  I often wish I were dead and try to think of interesting ways in which I could die.

There are two phrases that I chant to myself when I am nervous, “I wish I was dead” and “I love myself.”  I am not sure which of the two is crazier.  I mostly have wished I was dead every day since I broke my neck.  I am probably truly insane but it the fact remains, I should be dead but I am not and instead I live in constant pain.  Some days are better than others but a simple, unintentional movement that wouldn’t bother most people can put me in the sort of pain that would make anyone wish they were dead.  Today is one of those days.

When I am like this, I cannot sleep, which is why I am writing all honest.  Partially, what do I have to lose?  Partially, I really wish my head would just finally fall off and I could be put out of my own misery.  If I could be put down like an animal, I probably would opt for it.

I am afraid.  I think a lot of the bravado comes from this.  I am just so afraid of everything that I’ve adopted the craziest personality quirks just so I can make it through each day.  I am 30-years-old and I will likely die alone.  I am past that point in my life where I think I can compromise and live with another human being.  I hate compromising.  I want things a certain way.  And that’s really sad cause it means I will sit alone in the dark at night scared, forever.  Oh, I’m afraid of the dark at 30, rich isn’t it?  I think, more than anything it’s why I like having a dog that snores like crazy.  She snores and it’s not really lonely or frightening, even though it really is.

God, I am trying to think of all the things I want to admit about myself so that I can get it over with and post it and not feel like I am imprisoned by my own lies anymore.  And the saddest part is, I’m not even sure they’re lies.

If I’ve ever been terrible to you, just know that I probably really enjoyed it.  And know that if I apologized, I probably did not mean it.  When I am hurt, even a little, I want to destroy you.  I want to bash a rock against your face until you can’t hurt me ever again.  In your pain I want all people to know that I am a loose cannon and that I cannot be controlled nor can I control how I react, even though I totally can.

I think, more than anything, I need people to know that I am just the same sad girl that would stay up all night reading cause books and the characters in them seemed like the only thing in the world that made any sense.  Still, when I read a book, I feel closer to the characters than all the people I have ever known and loved in my life.  Maybe it’s why I try to read less and less, with the hopes that instead of loving characters in books and being destroyed when they die, maybe, somehow I can have that with someone else.  I really am losing faith in the possibility, but as it is now, what do I have to lose?

2012 is the year of truth for me.  So just know, this is only the beginning of really interesting things.

Sharing means later when you put it god knows where I get to lose my mind cause that wasn’t the exact spot where I wanted it.  And God forbid you put it in your purse or pocket on accident.  I consider that stealing and then I mark you as a thief and desperately try to get over the fact that I want to smother you while you sleep.

Since I am not any good at sharing stuff, I am terrible at sharing people.  Men, to be exact, which is why I thought this recent situation I was in was kinda insane.  After I brought Married Guy to my sister’s birthday party, that idiot kid who said I was ignoring him wouldn’t come to the after party.

When I texted him and was like, “Common, you orchestrated this after party, get over here.”  His reply sort of boggled my mind.  I guess I could look it up and give it to you verbatim but I am too lazy for that, but essentially he said he couldn’t sit in a room where he was being ignored but that I should enjoy myself and his brother who’s the blonde version of himself.

Now let’s think about that, I am supposed to enjoy his brother?  What sort of weird comment was that?  It didn’t really dawn on me how weird it was until his brother got there and started hitting on me.  Was I in Swimming With Sharks and both of these idiot brothers think they can bang me?

Of course I flirted with the blonde brother cause he really is the cuter one but then I was like, “Whoa, Cognata.  Way too weird.”  And eventually just ignored him too and went home.

I probably would have let the whole thing just kinda die except for the fact that the next day my sister was like, “The idiot kid says that you should bang his brother if you want.”

Uh, excuse me?  That comment really got me to thinking that this was really a super weird situation, especially since my sister said it all nonchalantly but she happens to be in the middle of this strange Free Love phase where I can see how she might support this, but it’s still crazy.

But the more I thought about it, the stranger it was.  You can’t give someone permission to have sex with your brother.  You can’t even set that sort of thing up.  It’s weird and presumptuous.  And most of all crazy.  When something is too crazy for me then it’s ultimately crazy.

If I am still conflicted about having sex with a married man, why would I suddenly want to have sex with the brother of a guy I’d already had sex with.  To be perfectly honest, I am pretty sure I saw this on an episode of Maury, only the sister wasn’t like, “You should bang the other one too.”

Sharing isn’t something you’re supposed to do with a penis or a brother or brother’s penises cause that’s like, I dunno, bizarre.  And even though I have all these strange stories I am racking up, I don’t want one where I am like, then I passed myself along to the brother cause ultimately, I have zero self worth, cause the fact of the matter is, I do.

I guess what I am getting at is the whole world has gone mad and coming from someone who markets herself as clearly insane, you should all be worried.

This week, I have been playing with that idea of life.  What sort of boring, sad loser has to stay out all night, every night?  A sad, lonely bastard.  I keep asking myself, why the fuck was I emerging from a party dungeon sometime after dawn, every night for close to a month?

I was on the sort of party binder that makes you want to stay home for the rest of the year.

So I decided to take a vacation from my life for something a little more domestic and a tad more low key.  I’ve been at my friend’s house for the past week:  writing, vegging out and playing with children.  I have done this all in pajamas.  Pajamas are awesome.  But it’s nice to take a reprieve from the party monsters and spend my evenings with people who want to just play Scrabble and talk ideas.

Why am I not spending more time with people that care about ideas?  Why have I created a set of rules and values where no one cares about anything other than being the center of attention in a room of the saddest people on Earth?  Because I am afraid of what I can get done and what I may not accomplish at the same time.

I’m going to venture that none of my party friends have achieved even a modicum of success cause they waste all their time constantly chasing down the perfect party.  If I can tell you anything, there is no perfect party.  There’s just tiny moments your drunk brain hangs onto.  Situations you want to consistently recreate with the hopes of validating that empty part of your soul that can never be satiated.

What I’m saying isn’t that people should stop drinking or stop having fun or never go out again, but there’s something to be said for a solitary cocktail and a very competitive game of Jenga.  And there’s more to be said about doing it in pajamas with like-minded people.

It’s really possible I still have no idea what I am talking about but perhaps there is hope for me if the world does not end.  And perhaps that hope is in falling asleep before 9am and being productive throughout the day.  And maybe that’s not for me at all, but it’s nice to get up and make coffee and do the crossword puzzle in the perfect peace of the early morning.

Only I needed to figure this out by taking a leave of absence from my life.  Now I just need to figure out if I ever want to go back or not.  Memories are made of these.

Last night was extremely fucking weird.  Extremely.  Married Boyfriend was my date to Gia’s birthday party.  I didn’t eat for two days and dressed up like a fucking hot pink honey bee.  God, I should just start from scratch and tell the whole truth.

I have been acting like a lunatic.  It’s why the writing is so fucking vivid and real.  When I am killing off something and destroying people like a giant wave just washing everything out, that’s when my writing is the best.  I want to keep writing.

The truth of the matter is I made the mistake of having sex with a friend of mine and it was really a fucking poor choice.  But it was a weird time and I had just gotten my DUI and I was like super committed to doing whatever I wanted regardless of consequence.

And then I ended up liking him.  But it was weird cause it wasn’t like I wanted to run off into the sunset or date him.  He’s a fantastic person and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him.  It’s funny how I always come back to that.  I didn’t want to hurt him.  I always end up hurting them so much more than they ever hurt me.

I didn’t want to hurt him but I couldn’t have him and I turned into the shitty, petulant child that I am and for the past couple of weeks I have just become increasingly more terrible.  It’s like I have to treat him like a fucking whipping boy because I am confused, which all came to a fantastic crescendo where I was crying in the streets Monday night.

I can’t have you.  I don’t want you.  I want.  I want.  I want.  I am like a fucking terrible puppeteer who has to just fuck with everyone’s everything.  I think it’s cause I’m a bad person.  I’m getting philosophical again.

So this poor boy, that got himself caught up in my wrath with my friends, this poor fucking bastard–with the world’s kindest eyes.  When I realized I couldn’t have him.  I had to destroy him instead.  And my sister said it all, “You’re so selfish, you are going to orchestrate this shit show so that you can get whatever you want and you are going to totally disregard everyone.”

Everyone.  Disregarded.

So, like I tend to, I have been ignoring him because that’s easier to me.  To kill someone off with mind bullets rather than just sit down with them and explain that I am filled with my own sad, crazy, weirdo bullshit.

And then I invited Married Guy as my date.  I invited him and I wore a fucking t-shirt as a dress as to say, “Fuck you, I need to express the fuck out of my inner whore.”  And I ignored that super nice guy all night cause what the fuck else was I supposed to do?  I ignored everyone, and I just sat on Married Guy’s lap and he asked me if I wanted to go away with him.

Of course I want to go away with him.  And now I’ll probably run away with him, you know, for a time.

But I did everything I wanted to do, which was just point out to this really nice guy that he doesn’t know me.  What he knows about me is so fantastically limited.  I’m not a good person.  I’m not a nice person.  And I can make you hurt without trying.  Although, to be fair, I really tried.

When I talk to a man, when I talk to a man I like, he is the only person in the world to me.  And last night he was not that man.  I’m not sure he ever was.

I need time off and time away.  I am confused  most of the time by the fact that I know how I feel, but most of the time the way I feel is irrational and extremely intense.  I want to burn down the world and the barn and throw the baby out with the bath.  I need greatly to pillage and destroy.  I am not sure why.

I have lots of problems.  I do not talk about them.  I am my road block.  I hate everything.  I love everything.  I do not want to have to talk about how I feel.  I never want to talk about feelings.  I wish I didn’t have any feelings.  I want people to just know that there are these feelings around me like orbits and if you get in their way, you are their victim.

I just want people to know how I am feeling.  Or that I am feeling.  Why can’t I just psychically let everyone know these things?  This desire is totally self-defeating.

I am always lying and insisting I am happy.  I am not.  I am just sort of there.

I go home and sit in silence cause there I am happiest.  I need more silence.  I need to drown out the world.

I am a bad person in a good way.  I am still a bad person.  I should probably work on these things but I won’t because in a way, the flawed person that I am is special.

And if I have to pick something to work on, it’s not going to be a personality defect but my writing.  So here we are.

If the world doesn’t end I am going to be very, very pissed off.

My sister says I should sleep with my married boyfriend.  I find this to be very conflicting.  She says that it’s a new age and that social stigmas don’t even matter.  I am not sure the social stigmas bother me nearly as much as the fact that he gets to go home to his wife.

His wife hates me.

I went to a party at their house where this man with a very white-grey beard followed me around and Married Boyfriend would catch my eye and wink at me.

His wife would also catch my eye and look at me like she hated every particle of my composition, which is hilarious since she’s an artist and I am a continuous work in progress.

Maybe I will start sleeping with my married boyfriend.  Maybe.

Erin says I should not start sleeping with him because I would just end up his fulltime mistress and who wants to do that?  But who wants to get married and enter into white lady slavery?  I dunno how I feel about that.  My whole life I never really thought I would get married because I do not like having to feel obligated to comply to someone else.

But then Married Boyfriend says something like, “You need to be taken care of and told what to do, all at the same time,” but he’s right and I hate that he’s right but he’s just right.

Maybe.  Married Boyfriend.  Maybe.

It wouldn’t even be the dumbest thing I have done in a while, if it’s even dumb.  I got my DUI finally.  In a way it was really awesome because I got to get handcuffed and I treated my mugshot like getting a photoshoot and when they weighed me, I hadn’t eaten in close to a week and I was the thinnest I have ever been in my adult life.

When the cop told me my weight I exclaimed, “This is the best day of my life, I have achieved my goal weight.”

Their jaws dropped.  I did not get put into the drunk tank cause they hated me.  They hated me so much that they put me with the prostitutes, which was even more awesome because the big black prostitute who was in charge was like, “GLASSES, WAKE UP GLASSES.  DEY CALLING YOU.” 

And the really young prostitute who couldn’t have been older than 19, maybe, cried and cried and I held her in my arms and told her it would be ok.

“I’m not a prostitute.  I was just on the corner with me friend who’s a prostitute.”

“It’s ok, I’m not a degenerate drunk that just wanted to get out of a bad date so I said I could drive.  And I didn’t crash into a parked car.”

She cried harder.

I don’t know what it is about me or this life, but anything that seems seedy or unacceptable to common society, I am endlessly attracted to it. 

I just want to hang out with degenerate old men, drink hard, talk to prostitutes and watch fights and I want to do it all the time. 

I never want to be in an office.  I never want to have to be up in the morning.  I just want to be young and wild forever.  But I won’t. 

I can’t wait for the world to end so it can clean up my whole mess for me.

Next was Sex King, he said he might come down to LA in the next few weeks and wondered what I was up to.  What I am up to is trying not to succumb to his amazing sexual prowess.  If he comes to LA I am running away, even though I probably shouldn’t.

After that was the painter/photographer, we had a really sordid affair because I met him as he was leaving LA but we have always been friendly.  He just wanted me to know he would be in Hollywood for Christmas, we should get drinks.  I can’t disagree with this, he is awesome.

Shortly after I thought about playing with my painter in the bottom of a glass of bourbon, I received a text from a guy I dated who still likes to tell me we will end up together.  We will never end up together.  He told me I should come with him to see his parents and I proclaimed that to be, quite possibly, the worst idea of all time.  Then he told me to come to a party.  I am probably heading to that party.

But then one of the guys I toyed with a whole bunch earlier this year saw me online today and sent me an Instant Message.  “We should get drinks?  Where are you living now?  Are you happy?”  Really, what difference does it make?  I am free Tuesday.  Take it or leave it.  So Tuesday, I have plans with him.

And then there’s Married Boyfriend, who is consistently making plans for him and I, that I more often than not, have to find ways to get out of, even though I don’t want to.  His wife’s having a gallery exhibition on the Westside and he wants me to be there.  So I’ll be there but first I have to find a couth, cunning & awesome fellow to accompany me.  The last time I went to one of their events solo, it was like a tragic nightmare of people trying to figure out what the implied intimacy between him and I was.  And it wasn’t sex I can guarantee you that, which made whatever is between us, so much more threatening to his wife.

And there’s still 10 more days till Christmas, so I can’t see who decides to poke their head up and into the Sabrina-o-sphere.  Cause I know there’s a whole bunch more I’d like to see and even more I’d like to turn down for eternity.

You go out with someone.  You hangout a few times.  You bang.  You hangout with someone else maybe you bang them too, maybe not.  And you can do it like this forever, weaving a braid out of the people you have been with, will be with and people you’ll never want to be with again.

That being said, why is it so shocking that maybe I would be dating multiple people?  And moreover, how can you think I wouldn’t assume you’re doing the same thing.  Cause I know you are.  In fact, unless you do that thing where you sit me down and are like, “We are exclusive.” I will assume everyone is just out and doing whatever they want, cause why wouldn’t I?

The thing is, this is exactly what everyone is doing but no one wants to admit it and I think it’s the dumbest thing in the universe.  Do men think that I am going to seriously believe that they are not seeing anyone else?  And then assume that I should give a shit in the case that it comes up?  Cause I’m not.  I’ll be annoyed that you crossed your streams because the cardinal rule is never to bring up your other bitches in any way.  Ever.

That is called respect.  And I don’t have any for any one man so even though I am dating someone I am going to keep writing and tweeting and facebooking all the shit I am up to because I honestly do not give a fuck if someone’s pride is hurt.  If I really liked them, I wouldn’t be out all night prowling.  If I really liked them there wouldn’t be any point in this post.

Usually I do it in panties and a t-shirt and knee socks and I dance around and jump on the bed and just enjoy my moment.

Every year the same thing. Every year getting older.

I don’t feel older. If anything, I feel younger, dumber and more irresponsible. It’s almost as if I am going back in time and by the time I am officially a senior citizen I will be a full fledged emotional and psychological paramecium brain.

But I like the thought of that because you’re supposed to fall apart. My body is already doing that. When I want to be depressed, I just think how terribly crippled I’ll be by the time I’m 50 and then I go out and slay a bunch of men like I am the last knight in a battle of the ages.

Slaying men might be the only thing that placates me anymore. Which is weird and sad. Sometimes I really have to wonder if I am in it for the prize of eternal (or whatever people call it) companionship or if I really am ok floating around and experiencing as many people and problems as possible.

And every time I sit down to write one of my exploits, a news story or even an interview I think about how boring life could be and I have my answer.

But I am thankful for my family and my friends who continue to stand alongside me despite my fucked up, stupid decisions.  I am also thankful for any and all opportunities I have had to write professionally.  And mostly, I am thankful to be here, even if means I’ve got a lifetime of fucked up situations to get myself into and out of.