Before you, after you

I need to remind myself more often that I can do it on my own and while it's nice to have a person there to back me up, I was here before them and I'll be here after them, God willing.

I just have to make it through to the end of this year.

My cat bit the shit out of my arm.

Goodnight.

505

It's 5:05 a.m. and the whole world is sleeping; I however, am desperately searching the inner sanctum of my brain trying to remember the things I learned in college to ensure that the rest of this blog entry is eloquently put.

My feet smell terrible; I either have to start wearing socks or purchase new shoes, also possibly stop working if that could be a thing where I do nothing but also somehow get paid for that.

It's been a while since I've updated so let me give you the rundown of how my trip to NYC went:

-I hung out with my best friend for 4 days straight
-I saw a handful of the best people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing
-I missed some people that I wanted to see, but I'll visit again soon
-We ate some badass food
-We drank from BKLN to LES, East Village to SoHo
-Got lost in Greenpoint at 5 a.m.
-Remembered what it was like to fall in love with a city
-Saw a Broadway show with James Fucking Franco
-Said Goodbye
-Sprinted through a terminal
-Stopped in Chicago
- Flew home to my cats

You guys, YOU GUYS, I really needed that. Leaving your problems behind is not how you fix things, but it helps a shit ton.

I haven't been with Tim in 3.5 months (+/- 2 weeks) and its okay. I sent my cake and I'm okay. I won't say that I don't harbor some real resentment towards him because I do, but I'm just not that big of a person and I never claimed to be.

3 really is the magic number, y'all.

The more I think about my relationship with Tim, the more I realized that our relationship was based on my ertocised vision of this person who possessed what I believed I wanted in a partner. I was looking for the qualities I'd found in men I'd dated before; Tim was my type: tall, thin, and disaffected, and it's funny that you only notice that all of these attributes were a-typical of the failures of relationships past.


 I am a young hispanic female and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. 

I've recovered and I am content.

Now comes the nitty gritty, the thing you'll judge me for, and the reason for your exaggerated sigh:

*I am seeing someone now. 

*if you count weekly casual encounters + lunches/dinners as dating; I'll need his conformation on this one. 

I am often amazed that I've made it this far because when it comes to feelings one-on-one I am bad about sharing them. I find myself currently in this kerfluffle if you will, with this gentleman person because I don't know how to approach uncomfortable topics of conversation without behaving like a love sick 4 year old.

I'VE GOT KINDERGARTEN EMOTIONS AND I'M UNABLE TO SHARE THEM WITH OTHERS IN A MANNER THAT MAKES FUCKING SENSE.

You see the problem here is that I've allowed myself to become involved with a person, a beautiful, exceptional person.

Did you see that?! FEELINGS?!

!!!!!!!!!!!????

I don't know how to have that awkward conversation where you tell your casual partner that you're "batshit crazy" and hope that he can "see passed that and entertain the idea of exclusivity" without "any pressure". I guess I just really kind of like this guy and like, if he fucks someone else I'm gonna be real pissed off.

I might be jumping the gun here, shit, if he still wants to share a bed with me after this week then we'll consider it progress because my cat attacked him and he got cellulitis and it was his birthday.

Ok, here's a picture, I don't know if any of this made sense.

Bye.

Culture Shock

It was 5 a.m. and a sleepy downtown Houston was all but rid of the trash that appears every night at 2 a.m. from the bar's that line Main Street. I walked to El Big Bad; El Big Bad is a "gastrocantina"- it's a tequila bar with a focus on house made infusions and a small but diverse Tex-Mex menu. Dressed in a polkadot sundress and black flats, eyes still red from lack of a good night's rest; we gathered inside the spot we'd only left a few lazy hours before to shoot a promotion for a local t.v. station. A group of 10 lured here in the wee hours on the promise of free food, a bottle of tequila, and a Cocktail Kingdom "starter kit" a $60.00 value, we are apparently a cheap bunch. 

It was May 5th, which doesn't mean a ton to a lot of people, but in the name of alcohol consumption, society will appropriate entire cultures for the sake of a "significant holiday" to "celebrate" that is devise an excuse to drink into oblivion on a weekday . (e.g.: Cinco De Mayo, St. Patricks Day)

There was a Mariachi band hired to play music in the background; they arrived, set up in the corner of the restaurant, and began to warm up, much like an orchestra before a performance.

I sat in a stool at the bar, saying nothing when the violinist began to play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik: Allegro by Mozart. My ears sprinted with delight, anticipating every note that followed, my little heart in synch with his bow; I remembered what the sheet music for the piece looked like, how the fingers should be placed on the strings, vibrating back in forth with quick, sharp movements making the sound rich and heavy. 

He stopped as suddenly as he started and I began to ponder and I became troubled by my thoughts.

Why did I decide that because he was from Mexico that he'd not have an appreciation for classical music? I was completely distraught. I sat and contemplated this well into the morning; is this discreditation of my own people my own fault? Is there something I'm not seeing?

My father attended university in Mexico and earned a degree in Anthropology; he's a music teacher at an inner city elementary school and taught me so much about the art and music I love so much as an adult, still I found myself confounded that history classes taught in the schools I attended failed to teach me anything outside of cinco de mayo when talking specifically about Mexican history or influence. 

I began to study more closely the accomplishments of Mexican or Mexican/American classical musicians; I found myself with this idea that as a Mexican American child growing up in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood the socioeconomic status of my family and the families around me had created this impenetrable bubble where the primary focus wasn't art but family, religion, and hard work; lucky for me my parents were educators and instilled in me early on that there was in fact, a world outside of our homogenous unit. I researched further and expanded my argument, it wasn't just my people, it was everyone who didn't fall under the WASP classification.

I had not until that very moment realized how profound an impact my little neighborhood had on me. There is this slight feeling of resentment toward the school district that allowed this ideology to seep into the school and influence the curriculum. The children we grew up to be were initially afforded two paths; you could aspire to be an artist, to love music or the written word and accept that you'll struggle in poverty for the rest of your life, or you can decide now that you'll leave here, complete the necessary courses and get a job to help your family then start a family of your own like so many of our parents had done. It wasn't until high school that many of us knew that we could go to college, or that those paths presented to us early on weren't the only ones that existed.

I'll preface this with the fact that there is no right or wrong here; we are all instilled with the ideals we were raised with; a strong work ethic and an appreciation for a tight knit family are admirable and desirable qualities so in this there is no fault. I am saying however, that I felt that those very ideas were carried over to the schools we attended and further emphasised, curtailing the length of our educational scope focusing on passing standardize testing and letting liberal arts fall by the wayside, because in the end, you were as smart as your test score dictated and predetermined what you'd do later (Housewife? Mechanic?).

Intelligence is not measured by test scores but by curiosity; if you can add 1 +1 and come to 2 then you're half way right, the instrument of measure here is not  a correct answer but asking "why is it 2?" 

As I made my way through grade school and into high school we moved away from the area that was slowly gentrifying around us and I transferred to a new school in a neighborhood like the one we moved away from, only slightly different. It was at that school that I began to understand that liberal arts was a viable choice, one that I enjoyed and excelled in. Things at this school were different, we were an inner city school located in the heart of a middle class neighborhood whose student demographic ranged from impoverished to upper middle class. I met people who were first generation American's whom had created this unique identity; they were still the kids their parents raised with a focus on family and religion, but they were also people who'd decided that they were going to be artists, lawyers, physicists, for no other reason than being genuinely interested in the subject. Here we were a generation divided.

Here I am now, a girl and a laptop; i suppose then at this point that it isn't just the educational system, or the socioeconomic status of the people around you but rather culture as a whole. Western culture, anglo culture, the best culture in the world; for all their allotments in regards to other culture's achievements has failed to recognize the important accomplishments of those particular people rather acknowledging a select few events that American culture deem relevant. 

I once worried about the future; not so much mine, but the future of us, but I know that the kids I went to school with were the one's who broke free from their cultural restraints to become the minority children who succeeded and joined me in art school and claimed titles such as "valedictorian", "doctor", "professor" and so on. Our parents unknowingly waged a war on art but we proved to have the strength in numbers to claim victory.

Bohemian Like You

I had this dream last night where I was being chased by a group of Dementors and when I finally cast my patronus it was a hot dog; it was really weird and it woke me up.

It was 5:30 a.m. so I decided that I'd start working instead of attempting to fall back asleep. I just started a new job as the beverage director at a popular establishment in midtown Houston and I'm pretty eager to assert myself in this position, so away I typed on my laptop. I wrote 864 words before 6:30 a.m. and I was far from done, but it's nice to have something to focus on aside from my shitty broken heart. I know its getting old and you're tired of reading about it.

I've been going at this whole management position with unbridled fever, so I'm on the upside of anger for the most part. 

A few nights ago I lapsed a bit; after a long hard day I came home and started fucking around on the internet, because every stupid fucking purchase I make happens under the influence of  a whiskey or two on the rocks. Like, a month prior to my breakup I purchased a cake sampler from Momofuku Milk Bar in New York City, because it was my favorite comfort bakery in all of the city and I wanted Tim to have something special for Valentines Day. It arrived to my mothers house and sat in the freezer so that it would be good when I finally had the chance to give it to Tim. It sat and sat, time passing because our lives had become bogged down with work and extracurricular bullshit. Then Tim broke up with me and the world exploded. I ate the cake sampler. All of it. Every morsel consumed between hot tears and episodes of House M.D. I felt like a recovering addict, relapsing on a three day bender. All the lows were felt.

I stared at the website, every neuron firing simultaneously and dancing with the sweet burbon coursing through my blood, riding high on that whiskey horse. I stared a bit more, and then I decided that I'd do what I wanted to do initially and send it to Tim, because rational thinking is not a thing in my life. I input the payment information with care, proofreading the credit card number, the address, the date of delivery. Two more clicks and boom, off to the interwebular tangle of information my order was sent.

That cake sampler is not fucking cheap.

I woke in the morning a bit hazy. I leave for New York in two days and I'm what one would call "strapped for cash". I lay and reflect: what's the worse that can happen? He throws it away? He hates me for sending him cake? Like, please.

I forget what the note said verbatim but I remember including "please never date someone cooler than I am. Love from 1636 miles away"

Back to the present.

Tim went on a river trip- I only know this because I saw some photos he was tagged in by a mutual friend. I saw the photos and my first thought was "where are his glasses?" then "he's wearing shorts." and finally "he's smiling." I thought about it for a minute; in January we'd spent time at Hamilton pool and dreamed up plans for the summer, a summer where everything was good and we were happy.  My heart began to ache. I watched a video where he was standing in the middle of a lake and plopped into the water in a pseudo baptism. I cried for a few minutes.

He'll probably never eat the cake.

Thank God for my job, it keeps me busy and I enjoy it thus far. I'll talk to you guys when I'm done healing up in NYC, and I'll have some fun shit to share with you.

Thanks for listening, stay cool.

Sight For Sore Eyes

I spent this morning on a good note; I woke early, showered, prepared breakfast, and watched a documentary on Netflix. In the history of good starts from 1 to 10, I'd say this was like, I dunno, a strong 8. 
I applied for a job at Gawker today, totally rad. I'm not sure if they'll even take a look at me but I'll share the email I sent them with you:

 Attached is a resume, a photo of a cat, and a link to my current blog where you will find all the writing samples you could ever want. I would love the opportunity to work for a publication in which I could utilize my liberal arts degree and finally confirm that the thousands of dollars spent on formal education was in fact not all for naught. Should you decide to pass on me, no hard feelings, but I pray thee finds me at the very least a serious contender.

Best regards,

Elle Kay

Attached was this photo

Tabby Cat is Tabby

I don't know what'll happen, but I've got to keep trying.

As the day wore on, the air thickened with moisture and the sky greyed, a prototypical omen of omens.

I was on my way to work when I spotted Tim sitting outside the bar he works at smoking a cigarette and talking to a girl I'd recognized for the last time he and I had spoken. I could feel the ball of ice in my stomach reach critical temperature, I was growing increasingly unstable, and my mother rambled on, and on making me beyond nauseous. This girl in the black skirt and the black shirt with brunette hair liked Tim and I could see that he too was at least quasi-interested (mind you this was like, a mere 35 second observation). I want to kill her, and all the other "her's" that might look his way, but especially her.

I tried my best to maintain composure, attempting to subdue the tremendous fire of jealousy and unabashed full on ire, and it worked for approximately 10 minutes. I found my way to work, walked into the backroom, sat on an empty cooler, and began to sob. I shook with fury and the thoughts flooded:

How could he move on so soon? Why does he not love me? What did I do to ruin this? Why did he forget about me? 

I thought about how I'd visit him at work before we dated and I wondered if she was doing what I'd done only 6 months prior. Perhaps this girl and I weren't so different. I proceeded to do the most asinine thing one could do in a situation like this and had a full blown text message breakdown. 

i divulged every emotion as it simultaneously ran through my entire body, I voiced the anger I feel, because to say "felt" would suggest that I am not angry anymore and that just isn't so,  not my finest moment. I finished with this

I guess I'm just not ready

And I know this to be true, but I also know that time heals all wounds, but it just does it excruciatingly slow. 

Whatever, time. 

I'll stop talking about this soon, but I'm still not over it and I need to say the things in my head lest I act foolishly.

God help me see this through.

Ok Stupid

Tonight I went on a date with a guy I met via OkCupid, and while I anticipated something close to the 10th circle of hell, it was actually pretty great.

I ran into Tim, he ignored me, I died a little, and that was the end of that.

We had a few beers, I drank a topo chico.

My date did not get to come upstairs because I can't imagine being close to anyone just yet but at least I know that I can get back on the horse that tried to kill me.

Poor guy was so bummed.

My neighbor is drunk and asleep on the couch in the foyer;

and I still miss Tim and my heart is still broken.

Waning Moon

The First Time I Met You

Our Relationship (I remember you saying you played a show with them and it made me like you like, 100 times more)

Happy Together

Making fun of Everyone Else

In and Out of Love

It's really over, isn't it?

Smell ya later