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I must have brought the wind from Simi Valley back to Berkeley with me when I left. I awoke this morning at four AM to the rustling of leaves on the tree a few feet from my bedroom and the early morning darkness acting as an opaque curtain against my field of vision. I decided to forgo the remaining three hours of sleep and drink copious amounts of coffee, very white with too much cream and sugar. I made it in the dark so the light wouldn’t disturb my sleeping roommates. I took an hour long shower, and spent too much time on my hair which nobody at work seemed to notice, care, or comment on. It’s not that I necessarily need anyone to notice my hair, my face, my clothes, my tattoos. I’m far beyond that awkward teenage to young adult stage in my life where I needed attention to feel like I was worth something. Actually, I’m not sure I ever went through that stage, to be honest.

I was always happier in my own company, or in the company of a few close friends or lovers or what-have-you. In elementary school, my best friends were the yard duties who would keep me safe from the other students who enjoyed taunting me about how much I liked the band Hanson as opposed to The Backstreet Boys. I talked to who I needed to in order to get through the day, but the rest, the important parts of myself were only shared with those who were closest to me. If even that. Early on, I learned the difference between being alone and feeling lonely and I almost always chose being alone to being with another. As a result, there must be many ideas floating around of who I am, but my interests and appearance and who I dated is so surface, I can’t help but laugh to myself when I hear them. I am a labyrinth, I am a maze. This isn’t just the two dollar wine or the fact that I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours talking. It’s something I’m working on, slightly; I want to blur those parts of me. Moving to a new city where you don’t know anyone is strange. I don’t like to admit it but some of the time now I am horribly, impossibly lonely. I feel nervous and light and watery around other people, I talk too quiet and too fast and my heart beats hard in my chest like a rabbit’s.

Sometimes I think I want to take out a classifieds ad in a newspaper or on Craigslist or something and it would say:


Someone to go to parks with
at night, under extremely tall baseball field lamps.
To go on long walks with.
Preferably with a vehicle,
so we can drive to the city beaches at night when it’s cold
and stick our heads out the windows when we’re going fast down an empty, dimly lit street
on a Friday or Saturday night when there are a lot of people out at bars and dance clubs spending all their money on pricey cocktails with fancy names
and we’ll say we don’t understand why they do that,
put themselves through that,
when you can drink at home and dance in the streets under the street lights.
You can waltz, salsa, thrash. The music is in your head.
And we’ll say we understand why dogs do this, this sticking their heads out the windows business
and we should do it at least once a week to keep our spirits up, you know.
Someone to go to libraries with
and museums of natural history,
someone who doesn’t have other people and doesn’t want other people and someone who doesn’t get sad or angry and someone who doesn’t get disappointed in me.
Someone who doesn’t care about wasting gas or time or energy,
someone who is a book person and doesn’t want to talk about it,
someone who is not far away, preferably in the East Bay region
just so when we’d call each other late at night it wouldn’t be long a long wait after saying, ‘Let’s just fucking go somewhere’,
(it doesn’t matter where, I promise, really, I’m not all that picky).
Someone to exchange mix CDs with and talk about airplanes and write things on the sides of buildings with and on notebook sheets of paper with, someone who responds instantly and with rapture or someone who takes time to think of a poetic response–
and someone who is quiet and honest and not someone to have sex with, not even to make out with,
someone who knows things, wonderful, terrible, fantastic things.”

The best thing to me is to meet people who really wholly and completely give a shit. About anything. I don’t understand people who don’t make things. It’s incredible and rare to meet someone who entirely invest themselves in something. I know it’s not necessarily a good thing, but I am just waiting now for someone to discover me, I guess.