Category Archives: Drama

The Third Most Traumatizing Event To Ever Happen to Me Happened Last Week

Man Friend (from here on out I’ll refer to him as Monkey JUST BECAUSE) and I recently adopted a cat. It took me three months to convince him it was a good idea, and he finally came around due to the persistence of me, his friends, and the gun I put to his head. He agreed, but not without conditions, first and foremost: the cat will not be allowed on our bed lest we inhale cat fur while we sleep (or he rolls over the cat at night). By our cat’s (Theo) second night at home, Monkey was sitting on the bed trying to coax Theo to jump up and cuddle, all his previous conditions promptly thrown out the window. They’ve been pretty good friends ever since, and to my extreme disgust I think Theo likes Monkey more than he likes me.

After Theo had been home for one day, we discovered his favorite place in our apartment was the windowsill. (It should be noted we adopted him on one of the hottest weekends in Los Angeles, and the poor guy was panting and slightly afraid after we trained four fans on him). We went around our apartment and closed every window where the screens weren’t secure considering we were on the second floor. After one terrifying day where it reached 105 in our apartment, we decided to open some windows that we normally keep closed so Theo could hopefully not die.

Let me set the scene. It’s night. Our entirely black cat has blended into the window screen so we don’t notice he’s there until we’re in bed. I inquire, “Isn’t that a window we usually keep closed?” Beat. Then Monkey and I both jump up to grab Theo, which causes him to jerk backwards in surprise, and then he’s gone. There’s a quiet moment where our hearts drop out of our butts and Monkey sticks his head out the window and then everything happens at once. I literally start sobbing the contents of the Pacific Ocean repeating, “Is he okay? Is he okay?” Monkey says he thinks he saw Theo take a step, and then we both bolt downstairs. I’m still sobbing (“Isheokayisheokayisheokay”) while Monkey runs barefoot over the loose gravel to grab our cat. He retrieves Theo and holds him to his chest and I can’t really see him and we run upstairs and collapse on the floor in a big heap and that’s when Monkey starts crying too. Now we’re both a big sobbing mess and Theo seems fine, if not a little shocked. He slowly starts to regain his senses, realizes these sniveling humans are holding him too tight, bites Monkey’s hands and runs to his food bowl. We make sure he’s not limping and shower him with treats and for the rest of the night we’re pretty much traumatized. We watch Bob’s Burgers to decompress, and worry the rest of the night that we’re terrible, irresponsible cat parents who should have cat social services called on us. We close every window in the house while sobbing and wishing ourselves into Cat Hell, all the while Theo is licking his balls like nothing happened.

Because I am an unabashed cat lady, here are cat pics:

Theo's first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.

Theo’s first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.

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Theo sleeping on the windowsill. I KNOW I’M BIASED BUT HE’S SO CUTE.

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La Pala de Excavación

If you’ve never had a pet, you should probably stop reading this, because, trust me, it’s going to sound very melodramatic if you don’t understand where I’m coming from. Tonight I came home from class expecting to hear the familiar jingle of my cat’s bell, quickly followed by the welcomed sight of her stick legs struggling to support her tubby body. Every night Pickles greets me at my door, and when I let her in she runs straight for the food bowl. Food is always her first priority. When she’s done gorging on the cheap cat food I buy from the corner store (or turkey leftovers) she’ll jump on my bed, purr, knead my blankets, and curl up with me when it’s time to sleep. Tonight, I didn’t hear her bell. I didn’t hear her meow. And in twenty minutes I found her dead on the sidewalk.

Two years ago I moved into The Blue House and was immediately greeted by a half-Siamese stray that hissed at me every time she saw me. Despite her rudeness, I could tell she was hungry and began to put food out every day. Quickly after, this cat we affectionately called Kitty fell in love with my housemates and me and we adopted her as the house cat. Since then, we’ve been through a lot with Pickles (so named after my mom yelled at me for calling her Kitty and said to pick the first name that came to mind). The first time we took her to the vet, we enclosed her in our homemade cat carrier: a moth-bitten box tied with a belt. We procrastinated on getting her fixed and six weeks later witnessed the birth of four tiny kittens under our coffee table. The kittens were a whirlwind of adorableness, frustration, and poop. Lots of poop. My housemate Kasey affectionately referred to them as Little Fuckers. We cried when the last one was adopted.

When my housemates moved out, it was Pickles and me against the world. No matter how alone I felt, she was always there, waking me up at three in the morning for more food, banging on the screen door to let her in, dragging her claws down the wall to let her out, and most importantly curling up next to my chest and purring herself to sleep. I joked about being a cat lady, but Pickles provided me with much needed support when it felt like I didn’t have friends.

I won’t get into the details of how much of a sobbing mess I was after I ran back to my room and slumped on the floor, trying to erase the image of her body draped on the sidewalk. After phone calls to both parents, I called Kasey. “What up, bitch?” I started to cry again as I launched into the depressing reveal. “I just don’t want to leave her out there, you know? I don’t want people to see her.” Kasey immediately came over. He wrapped up her body and placed it in an empty Daredevil vacuum box. Without a shovel, we resorted to knocking on the neighbor’s door. A middle-aged man opened up. He didn’t speak English. I looked up “digging shovel” on my phone. “Tienes una pala de excavación?” He nodded and went to retrieve it. His toddler stared at us with wide eyes from behind the screen door.

Under the light of two weak flashlights, Kasey dug a hole under the stairs outside my room. I helped a little, though it was pretty pathetic to watch me struggle with the unwieldy shovel. “Do you think this is a big enough hole?” I pictured her curled up, the way she did when she would lie in the sun. “Yeah, I think so.” I closed my eyes when Kasey put Pickles in the ground. “Do you want to say something, or…?” It felt stupid and necessary. He leaned against the railing. “Pickles lived with me for nine weeks. She was a great cat, and those kittens, those little fuckers…I don’t know.” I nodded and tried to talk without crying. “Pickles was one of those cats that kept getting better. This past week was one of the best.”

In the scheme of things, Pickles was just a cat. But in my life, in this room, in this bed, I’m really not sure how I’m going to sleep tonight without a chubby Siamese curled up against my chest.

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Writing Comedy After Tragedy

My grandfather died a couple weeks ago. I was incredibly close to him and it left me devastated. As stupid as it sounds, I didn’t want to write comedy after his death. It’s not that I couldn’t write at all; the day I found out he died, it only took me an hour to write a four-page essay detailing the various emotions and thoughts I was experiencing. In the weeks that followed, I revised a screenplay, wrote to-do lists, and crafted cover letters. Despite this productivity, I had a strong aversion to updating this blog. The posts that I publish here are my ridiculous, comedic, embarrassing, lighthearted stories about my failures. Contributing material in the time mourning my grandfather felt like blasphemy, like I was dishonoring the grieving period by writing silly stories. It made me a little sick to think about putting on a front for the internet when inside I was struggling not to become an emo little bitch.

Three things brought me out of my funk: the first was time. As simple as it sounds, I needed time to process all the negative and depressing emotions that I hadn’t ever experienced before. It took a couple weeks, and I still feel it occasionally, but for the most part I feel myself now. The second thing was watching Colbert’s show after his mother died. Distraught by his mother’s death, he gave a heartfelt speech in her memory. Here was this hilarious, sarcastic guy baring his deepest sadness to the world; he made some jokes, he held back tears, and it all worked marvelously. This reminded me that comedians can be sad, and that’s okay. The third was the funny stuff I couldn’t avoid. I wasn’t searching for humor because “that’s how I cope”, it came out of nowhere and I couldn’t do much but accept it as humorous. So, in an effort to stop depressing the shit out of you guys, I’m transitioning back into my usual self with a couple sound bites from the week after my grandfather died.

My mom had to call everyone in my grandfather’s rolodex (the true sign that you’re above the age of 50) to let them know that he had passed. Here a couple of the responses from those phone calls. (Names have been changed) 

Mom: Hi, Mrs. Z [my grandfather’s 90-year-old secretary; imagine an emaciated Betty White]?

Mrs. Z: Yes.

Mom: This is Kathy, Bob’s daughter. I’m sorry to say he passed away.

Mrs. Z: Fuck.

 

Mom: This is Kathy, Bob’s daughter. I’m sorry to say he passed away.

Mrs. X: What happened?

Mom: He died in his sleep in his own bed. It was very peaceful.

Mrs. X: Aw shit, he died alone.

Mom: *bursts into tears*

 

Mom: This is Kathy, Bob’s daughter. I’m sorry to say he passed away.

Mrs. Y: Oh. John would’ve been sad if he hadn’t lost his mind.

 

I’ll be back posting some classic Carly failures within the next week. But for now, just wanted to say thanks.

Spunkychunk.

How To Get Out of a Kiss You’re Regretting (no really, someone please tell me)

Twatface had just broken up with me (see post ‘So…I Got Dumped’ to feel sorry for me and better about yourself), which left me in a blind and very pathetic wave of desperation. To appease this self-loathing, I went over to my friend’s house (we shall refer to him as Squishy and that will be his name). Did I mention that Squishy is Twatface’s best friend? And I only just met Squishy through Twatface? No, I didn’t mention it? Oh, well that’s probably because I didn’t want you to know that I’m a terrible person. But now that that cat’s out of the bag, we can proceed with complete, deprecating honesty. I was at Squishy’s house. In his garage. Squishy was drinking. I was 100%, agonizingly sober. Squishy professed feelings, I awkwardly sideswiped them with some stupid and transparent line like “Haha oh man you’re just a kick in the pants”. Squishy went for the kiss and I had one of those moments where time doesn’t slow down because time has never felt like it’s slowed down for me. So time is going on as it usually does and Squishy is clearly trying to get at my smackers and I have a decision to make. Do I fend off this sweet little Squishy and make him feel bad for all of eternity, or do I decide to take a chance and let him do his thing? I took the chance. And why? Because I’m nice. Too nice. In fact, I’m so nice my mom says I will soon be a victim because I won’t want to hurt the creepy-guy-in-the-park’s feelings by refusing to help him look for his puppy.

The kiss felt like those times I used to make out with my forearm to practice my kissing skills. No feeling, just weird preteen saliva. Squishy was really going at it, eyes closed, head moving from side to side, tongue doing some weird beached whale maneuver (soon to be featured in an upcoming blog post!). And then there was me. Eyes wide open, brain racing to think of an escape route, mouth just kind of accepting the things that were happening to it. I couldn’t just pull away and say what I was feeling. Like I said, I’m too nice. I needed a much more elaborate, passive aggressive, and ultimately more hurtful way to go about things. Damn my niceness, it’s making me mean! My ears were on full alert, listening for the slightest noise that could warrant a quick withdraw from our embrace with a “What was that noise?”, which would flawlessly morph into “Look at the time, I shall be leaving now.”

Squishy stopped for a moment to inquire, “Do you like kissing me?” Which now I realize would have been the perfect time to say, “Actually, now that you ask…” Hindsight’s a bastard in 20/20. I just couldn’t do it! I couldn’t crush Squishy’s ego, with his big hipster glasses and puppy dog eyes. So I opted to not really say anything and he took that as a “Please kiss me more.” I ended up being so subtle in my escape that I sat there, a receptacle to his tongue, for five minutes. Five painstaking minutes, ten abandoned plans, and seven inches of scooching backwards later, I finally got a chance to speak. “I don’t want to fall asleep while driving. So, I should go.” I smiled and laughed awkwardly and shuffled backwards all the way to my car. Squishy followed me. ALL THE WAY TO MY CAR. And kissed me again. Holy cheeseballs, I really need to grow a pair.

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Roots

There’s only one way to get in and out of my neighborhood. Just one road. I drive down it every day and every night, gripping the wheel with regret and breathing what feels to be poison, waiting for the moment I pass It. It has lived there for as long as I can remember. As a child, I would sit in the backseat and stare out the window at things I didn’t understand. Condos, shrubbery, grocery stores, stagnant hopes and decayed dreams would pass by in a blissful blur as my impressionable mind would attempt to remember what number comes after eight. I would see It but I wouldn’t notice the hidden malice, realize the potential evil yet to be unearthed. It would blend into the rest of the surroundings, unnoticeable and banal. Now I only see It. In the backyard, by the pool, in the gardening section of Home Depot, I think I see It lurking about, waiting to strike again. I approached the city, begged them to rip It out of the ground. They said no, Alice. Its roots are so deep it would be impossible to excavate. No one can fault It for what happened. You don’t want to harm an innocent. But It is not an innocent. It killed my sister. And It taunts me. On the anniversary of her death It wears flowers to commemorate her memory, mocking the precious wisps of fleeting video clips playing on a loop in my head. Today, the sixth anniversary, It wears a morbid bouquet of pristine sunflowers. Six years ago to this day, at 12:46 AM on January 16th, my sister drove down the road, the one that tightens my muscles and grinds my teeth to pearly dust. At 12:47 AM on January 16th, she increased her speed to 54 miles per hour, exactly 14 miles per hour over the speed limit. And at 12:48 AM on January 16th, my sister lost control of her car and crashed into It. An eighty-seven-year-old oak tree, gnarled tree knots and wispy branches testament to its age. But don’t let It fool you. It is no weakling. It killed her instantly upon impact. It didn’t give her a chance to fight back. It stood its ground, resolute and proud, resolved to be the last one standing on this desolate suburban road. It won. It beat her, and now, It beats me as I drive past its proud branches day after day, bristling in the unforgiving winter breeze, showcasing a freshly laid bundle of flowers.

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I Do: WordPress.com, I’m Ready to Renew My Vows

It has been roughly six months since my last post. Why’s that? I could not tell you. I don’t have a noble excuse about how I was occupied helping a sick relative recover from a life-threatening operation. On the contrary, I’ve been perfectly healthy and attending to my own immediate needs (finally finished all of Ugly Betty and season 1 of Game of Thrones, what what). Why is it I have so much trouble maintaining a blog, or keeping up my twitter (it appears even 140 characters is too much for me)? This is not a rhetorical question, I honestly want someone to tell me. How can I want to be a writer and yet fail to keep up a blog? (This is also not a rhetorical question. I’m getting desperate here). I feel like a seasoned bride, once so excited to offer my time and talents to my groom only to quickly abandon the effort it takes to keep the marriage afloat. Well, here’s my apology. I’m sorry WordPress.com. I’m sorry I abused your services by promising a lasting relationship only to cheat on you mere months later.

Well, everything is about to change (and this time I actually mean it). After birthing my blog, I’ve published a grand total of 2 posts. This will be my third. But, loyal readers, (yes I am addressing my mother, sister, boyfriend, and myself here), starting today I vow to publish a post a day. I know this seems bold, but I figure announcing it here will make me less likely to renege on my self promise. And if I fail, let it be public and mortifying (by this I mean my mother will discuss my failure to be a blogger at the next Thanksgiving dinner).

What finally pushed me to public vows of commitment? The selfish act of googling myself. For reasons known only to myself and my vanity (I would make Carly Simon proud), I googled myself and was shocked, gleeful, then horrified to find out I actually showed up in not one, but multiple links. And to follow those links would be a sad affair: an abandoned twitter account, a blog with two posts (the most recent from December 2011), a tennis leader board from my college club team (I’m ranked 23 out of 25. Woo.), and my account on an Extras casting site (I’ve never been cast as an extra; I think it’s just an unspoken rule that if you live in L.A. you must be listed on some Extras casting site). See? I’m pathetic. If someone were to look me up in the search for a dedicated and prolific writer, they’d be sorely disappointed.

So, gentle readers, this is why I’m now committed. I promise to write once a day. I don’t promise that it will entertain and make your time worthwhile. I DO promise that I will be here, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. Okay, that shit got serious. Honestly, if I get so poor I have to sell my laptop, I will not continue to write for my blog. But if all goes well, you’ll be hearing from me a lot more often. And I promise never to call you “gentle readers” again.

Thanks.

Chunkyspunk.

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