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Good news, everyone! I suck at everything! I want to cry and throw things and scream and laugh all at the same time, but I can’t. And you know why? Because I suck!

I usually talk about how even when things suck you have to find a way out because the more you say and believe they suck, the more they will.

SUCK SUCK SUCK EVERYTHING SUCKS I DON’T CARE, COME AT ME UNIVERSE. WITH YOUR MAGIC SUNSETS. I DARE YOU. Throw a sunset in my face, see if I give a fuck. I don’t. Spoiler alert GONE because I just said it. I DON’T GIVE A FUUUUU

How many times have I written that it’s okay to feel bad and it’s okay to suck as long as you realize it and then you can rise above it? So why can’t I? I am terrible at taking my own advice.

It’s so much easier to suck at everything than to try hard at anything.

The frightening truth is that I am not happy or okay with who I am, and I may never be. I was drifting along, like a plastic bag in the LA River, when I felt hate and loathing slowly pulse throughout my veins. For myself. People are like, “Shut up so many people would love to have your life” and I’m like, “So what who cares” and they’re like “You’re acting like a child” and I’m like “Nu uh I’m an adult” and then my mom hangs up the phone.

WILL SOMEONE HOLD ME?

I keep trying to work on my book. I take one step forward and two vodka shots back. It’s hard! It’s hard you guys! And what’s the point, anyway? Who cares? “I would rather watch somebody buy their underwear than read a book they wrote.” – Andy Warhol (true story).

There are so many people out there who are so much better than I am. And by better, I mean famous.

Guys life is hard. These are worse than White Girl Problems. These are Apocalypstick Problems. Or even Uncle Almie Problems.

Why do you suck?

Photo of my friend Chelsea as Edie taken by Lisa.

I do, sometimes. (I’m quoting Katy Perry who sings, “Do you ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind wanting to start again?”). I cringed at first with this simple “American Beauty” inspired lyric, but now when I’m feeling down all I have to say is, “I feel like a plastic bag” and my friends just get it.

Things are pretty much super in my life right now, so of course I wish it was different.

You want a rocket ship and then you get a rocket ship and suddenly you panic and think, no I don’t want this fucking rocket ship I want a boat. It’s something like that. It’s the feeling you get when everything is going right.

Contrary to what you’d think, it rarely feels good to feel right.

It’s like, this is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife. How did I get here? Where are my keys? I lost my phone.

The easiest thing to do in this situation is to take a deep breath and say, happily, “I don’t give a fuck.” Look at your watch and realize that it’s I Don’t Care O’clock. It’s freeing. I’ve also found that it actually really helps to listen to the Katy Perry song (“Firework”). When I’m stuck in traffic on the drive home I blast it 4 times in a row. My drive home is an hour and a half. If anyone wants to make me a mix and post it/has a mix already made, please link me. It would make my days. It’s in bold because it’s really important.

So what’s my problem? If everything is so good why does it feel so weird?

I wonder who would go to my funeral if I died. Legit dead. Water skiing accident. I don’t know how to water ski, hence the death. It kind of bums me out that I don’t have a boyfriend or husband who would show up to mourn. I know, I know, this is lame-ass or even ass-lame. No one I’ve ever dated would show up either. I don’t even know how they would hear about it. I guess my friends know that if I’ve gone a few days without tweeting, something’s wrong. I think I need to fake my death and then right when everyone has shown up and is very sad, I would pop out of a cake. Are there cakes at funerals? I want a cake at mine. Just wheel out a big fake cake instead of a casket and I’ll just pop out smiling like Debbie Reynolds. And then I wonder, will people actually be relieved to see that I’m not dead? Or would someone think, “Damn, so close”? I need a mortal enemy. All good bloggers have a mortal enemy. There are people on YouTube who tell me I’m ugly, does that count? Then there are people on Vyou who insist that I am a man and that I should, “Punch myself in the dick.” Let me tell you, internets, if I had a dick first thing I would do is punch it, just for giggles. Just to see what happens.

So anyway, I’m dead and I wonder, how long would that novelty last? I think people are finally over Heath Ledger’s death and he was a legit celeb. My death would make people sad for…I don’t even know if I could wrangle a month. Sure, my family would be sad, but my family is sad anyway. I just want a boyfriend to cry in the rain, chasing a cat, tearing his shirt off, screaming for me. I think I deserve that much.

Wait this cute guy just sat down next to me at Starbucks. That’s encouraging. Should I ask him if he would pretend to be sad when I died? Like exchange numbers so that when I die he shows up and tells everyone that he’s my secret lover? Would that work? I need a fake secret lover pact. But only with someone hot.

I think it’s pretty clear from the above exchange that I might be depressed as fuck. That or I just sit in front of the computer until I smell. But really, isn’t that the same thing?

People tell you that, “Time heals all wounds.” People tell you that, “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” People tell you that, “It’s always darkest before dawn.” These people are liars and assholes and should go to cliche rehab.

Let’s address their first groundbreaking, brilliant point. Time does not heal anything. Time just separates you from the thing that happened to where you are now. Sure, the pain may not feel as fresh, but it doesn’t erase the fact that the pain was there. All time does is enable you to trick yourself into thinking and believing that you’re fine, because it happened how ever many weeks/months/years ago and you’ve changed ever so much since then. And if time really did help you, fuck you, you liar.

Second: the whole it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. There’s been rumors that there’s a drug out that erases memories. Real “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” shit but without the whimsical touch and Jon Brion soundtrack. If this drug exists I need it in me like, yesterday. I would erase it all. Like that. The good memories do not outweigh the bad. The damage is done. My good friend Abby said, “You know I realized I’ve never met your parents” and all I could think was, “Yeah let’s really get to know each others’ families so that when you leave me I can feel especially terrible and embarrassed. Because it’s not enough to have you go away, but I would love to break-up with your family as well. If a whole clan can reject me instead of one person, that would be awesome.” And this is just my great friend Abby! How the fuck am I supposed to trust someone who wants to have sex with me? And by the way, I am not having sex with anyone, that ship has sailed, or sunk actually. My sex drive is the Titanic, shit is just dead and buried. I didn’t even get a string quartet to play me off, goddamn.

Yes, it is always darkest before dawn. Literally. But after dawn comes, the darkness is still there, it’s just inside of you. So now you’re like a goddamn haunted house, wherever you go, the poltergeists follow. You are completely and totally fucked. Get all the exorcisms you want, but that demon knows, “LOL you’re mine, bitch” and it’s right. When you’re dark inside, there is no difference between day and night. Things that seem bad at night are just as bad in the morning. They’re waiting for you. It’s like having own personal Tyler Durden. Have fun, kids! Make some soap!!!!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to drinking wine and listening to Regina Spektor.

But the wine is pink!! I CAN STILL HAVE FUN.

Torn — Natalie Imbruglia

(Yeah, let’s do this shit right.)

Fuck you, guitar man. Fuck you for looking beautiful as you got on stage with your guitar. Sure, you were dressed like a bartender and before you got on stage I thought you worked here, but now it’s all different. Fuck you for singing and playing the guitar so well. I don’t even know if you’re playing it well or if your general attractiveness is just translating through everything, but fuck you anyway.

Fuck you for looking like a more grown-up version of my ex, who I hope has been attacked by bears and after the bears attacked him they left him for vultures and the vultures did what they could and then a shark joined in, it actually got up out of the ocean and hobbled over, and then the bears came back because they decided they weren’t done (you know how bears are). Fuck you for looking like him and doing a really great cover of a great classic rock song mixed with another great classic new wave song. Bitch.

Fuck you for that glimpse of wedding ring that I didn’t catch until your very last song. Fuck you for being married. Fuck everyone for being married.

Fuck everyone who has ever let me down. You will never make your way back. You’re on my list. There is no getting off of this list. All of the pizza parties in the world will never get you off of this list. Oh, you don’t care? You don’t care that you’re on this list, guitar man? Too bad. Because I am an amazing friend. Once you’re my friend I will remain loyal to you with a ferociousness that is both admirable and a little scary. I am generally a good person. I am kind, generous with money, will show up to your Facebook events, and I fuck like a champion. So fuck you, guitar man. Fuck all of the guitar men of the world. And fuck you, Prince. I don’t even have a reason, but fuck you.

How Dark Is Your Dark Side — His Name Is Alive

That’s not happiness to see me, is it? — Michael Douglas, A Perfect Murder

This year for Yom Kippur bitches better atone to ME. I am DONE. I am not atoning for SHIT. I am the Kanye West of the blogging world. Bitches should be HONORED to atone their sins to ME.

Sometimes I just hate this city. Sometimes I just want to walk outside and just vomit everywhere. Sometimes I can’t be as positive about life as I was in my last post.

I just cannot believe that everything happens for a reason. I think this is something people say when something doesn’t work out for them. Life isn’t an episode of “Lost.” That person you saw at the airport is not going to become the love of your life 3 months later. Life is random and full of dead ends. Things don’t work out the way you think they will. So here’s where your choice comes in: you can accept that it didn’t work out as you thought it would and be okay with it or you can act like an asshole. I have chosen to act like an asshole.

When I was a little kid I thought I would be doing something very different than what I’m doing now. But in all honesty, when I was a little kid, I thought I would be Zorro. I thought that by now I would be running around in a cape with a sword. That didn’t happen. Am I pissed off that I’m not Zorro? Fuck yeah I’m pissed off I’m not Zorro! That’s bullshit! I SHOULD BE ZORRO, FUCK THIS.

I don’t want to be an adult! Except I like the part about drinking. That’s a great part of being an adult. Even though I’m an adult most people think I’m under 21. I got carded at my Nana’s 90th birthday party. The fuck?? And here’s the kicker: I was a year older than the bartender! What’s going on? And why didn’t I get carded today? SOMEONE FUCKING CARD ME.

AND NO, I WILL NOT JUST DANCE. IT IS NOT GOING TO BE OKAY. YOU LOST YOUR KEYS AND YOUR PHONE, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW? YOU’RE DRUNK, GAGA! STOP TRYING TO GIVE ME LIFE ADVICE! YOU CAN’T EVEN REMEMBER THE NAME OF THIS CLUB!

So yeah, I’m done. If Bret Easton Ellis gets to walk around drunk while wearing sunglasses indoors, I should get to do that too. I have nice Polo Ralph Lauren sunglasses and mine are PRESCRIPTION, SO FUCK YOU BRET EASTON ELLIS. I still want to be your best friend though.

Hey, in order to be the voice of my generation, do I actually have to write something? Can’t I just tweet shit and be drunk? I think if Ernest Hemingway had twitter he would stop writing novels. Didn’t he think that the best thing he ever wrote was a six word short story? I REST MY PANTS.

Runaway — Kanye West

A few nights ago, I went to a house party with a dear redheaded friend. I love house parties. It’s the unexpected factor. Will there be good drinks? Will there be cute guys? Will this be the house party that you saw in the movies, the one where everyone had a good time and there’s fun indie music playing in the background and you all wound up jumping into a pool and then dancing in front of a huge fireplace? Who knows?!

This house party had none of those things. However, they did have food, which I will give them major, major props for. Then again, they also had minimal seating and a very loud band. Look, I’m an old person, I guess. I want to go to a party where I don’t have to drink cheap vodka out of a red plastic cup and where I don’t have to pretend to care about your stupid band that Pitchfork just loves. I want to have adult conversations and adult drinks. At least people are starting to dress better. Yikes, here I go. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I am an old gay man trapped in a young woman’s body.

But that’s not important right now.

Most of the party was spent with the two of us talking solely to each other. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize with others. I was just in the mood to look good and pose. Which is basically what I did. I admit, I could have been nicer. But when a drunk girl practically collapses into your lap exclaiming, “WHOA, I did NOT see those steps there!” and cackles like Bette Midler without the charm, am I supposed to smile and agree? Or am I just a huge bitch?

Here’s where it went from awkward to straight up uncomfortable. My friend and I wandered into the living room and I saw in front of me a very attractive man. He was tall, had the profile of Adrien Brody, and the glasses of Don Draper, if Don Draper wore glasses. Basically I’m saying he was a handsome, well-dressed man. He looked oddly familiar. I was pretty sure that he wasn’t actually Adrien Brody, so why did he look so familiar? And then, like a sharp hiccup, it came to me.

This was my Facebook crush.

A long time ago, I went “boy shopping” on Facebook. I scanned friends and friends of friends for cute boys. I found one and I messaged him saying, “I don’t know you, but I think you’re cute.” He added me back. I looked at his photos, came to the conclusion that he had a girlfriend, and that was that. Eventually I landed a relationship of my own (which recently exploded, like the rockets’ red glare) and never thought of him again.

Until I saw him, in person, at this party.

“Oh no,” I thought. “The internet is here.”

I didn’t introduce myself. I don’t think he noticed me. Probably because I tried my hardest to become one with the wall. But it was a shame. There he was, cuter in person, with a (most likely) girlfriend in tow, and I was doing my best to pretend like we didn’t have access to each others’ newsfeeds. Not like I’m assuming he even checked my Facebook profile. Which brings me to another “I am secretly an old person” eye roll: when did the Internet go from being a convenient way to meet people to a new way to make people feel awkward?

I whispered to my friend the whole messy scenario. We then escaped outside. Where I ran into ANOTHER guy I was friends with on Facebook but not in “real life.” We ignored each other. Or rather, I ignored him, while he probably took no notice of me and if he did, had no idea who I was. The Internet is here, and it’s a real thing, and it’s freaking me out. I do not like what this beast has unleashed upon my generation. Like we don’t have enough problems (hello, fucked up economy, nice to see you again).

As usual, I blame the internet for everything. Always.

We’ve Been Had — The Walkmen

I’m near-sighted but tonight, as I’m trying to work on my book (and I swear this isn’t an excuse), things are a little blurry. Is it possible I’m also far-sighted? Or am I going blind? I AM GOING TO BE SO FUCKING PISSED OFF IF I GO BLIND.

It’s these damn big pupils of mine. For some reason, they’re larger than most peoples’. I’m pretty sure of this. One time I went to the eye doctor and he leaned in and said, “You have beautiful pupils.” And I said something like, “Oh…heh, uh, okay, thanks.” And he said, “They’re very large.” And I couldn’t even say, “Eyes up here, buddy” because that’s exactly where they were.

Don’t people who have large pupils have a better chance of going blind or something? I will be so angry if that happens. But on the plus side, I’ll take up smoking! I’ve always said, if I ever get an incurable disease, I’m just going to say, fuck it, whatever, and start smoking. It’s Manhattan, who gives a fuck? I’m also going to drink a lot too, but like, unabashedly. The great thing about that is I’ll never have to worry about being a designated driver. For a couple of reasons.

No, seriously, I don’t know how people do it. Once I interviewed a man for my documentary on Marilyn Monroe fans (that seems like it was in another life) and he was blind and I wish I was still in touch with him but I lost his address and I stupidly asked him if he had email and he said no, because, he’s blind. I mean he didn’t say that, he was kind and said that the technology for web surfing for the vision impaired wasn’t up to snuff yet. It was like on American Idol when Secrest held up his hand for the blind dude to high five or when George W. Bush waved to Stevie Wonder. Coincidentally, Ryan Secrest and George W. Bush really defined my later high school years, in their own special ways. Anyway, I was interviewing this guy for my documentary and we started talking about his life and I didn’t want to ask him, “Why are you blind, what happened?” because he mentioned when he was a kid he could see, but I didn’t want to put him on the spot and you can’t just ask people why they’re blind. So I asked him about work, fishing around to see if maybe it was a work-related injury. I know, I’m horrible! He told us about work, it was a perfectly normal desk job. He asked, “Is there anything else?” and I stared at my friend Erika and it’s like I was saying with my mind, “Ask him when he went blind” and I could almost hear Erika saying back, “That’s so awkward, you ask him” “No, you” and there was a strange halted pause and Erika finally just asked him something else.

I’m a vain person. I like putting on make up and spending money on hair products, and essentially, you know, not being blind. I worry that no one would want me anymore. That my friends would stop calling. They would probably keep texting, though, and I’d have to ask my mom to read the texts aloud to me. Because my generation hates talking on the phone. This is the internet’s curse.

Two nights ago I was in a hurry to drive over to my bestie’s house and so I quickly smeared face moisturizer on, focusing under my eyes, because Proactiv dried out my skin and now I’m worried if I scratch my cheek I’m going to cause a DAMN FIRE, and I put on lots of mascara and other essentials and drove off. I put on the air conditioning, as I tend to do, and on the drive over I felt my eyes starting to sting. Before long they were tearing, and burning, and I had to pull over. Thankfully I decided not to take Mulholland on the way there. When I pulled over and saw my red eyes, mascara running down, I realized that my moisturizer had sun screen in it and I essentially used it like eye cream and the cool breeze blowing into my face caused it to seep into my eyes. Then I realized I’m an idiot. Then I bought eye cream at Costco. But that happened today, and it’s another story. Except it’s not really story, it’s me wanting to buy $80 Chanel eye cream at Costco and my mom convincing me to get Olay.

My point to this stupid story is, what if I’m causing my own blindness? But don’t we all, in some metaphorical way, make ourselves blind? We never want to see what might hurt us. We make ourselves deaf, too, not wanting to hear what might hurt us. We do this to ourselves. …No? Yeah, I tried.

The Logical Song — Supertramp

I’m back from my east coast excursion. My brother is all freshly graduated and off to Cape Cod for an internship. I’m back here, drinking Starbucks like it’s my job. I missed you all and I missed this blog. Did you miss me? I kind of hope that you did. Oh who am I kidding, I really hope you did.

I hate flying from LA/to LA because everyone waiting in the terminal is on their mobile phone blabbering about their industry jobs. “She requested that we get the costume designer from ‘The L Word’”, “I worked on that project”, “She was a menace on set”, “He almost got it but he was too auburn”, “My foot hurts”, etc. No one cares about your job. You are not a special snowflake. You are one of thousands working on some project. And if you really were that important, you wouldn’t be flying Jet Blue.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get it, man,” says the heavily tattooed man sitting beside me at the gate, the “it” of course being THE role in something. “They said they were looking for someone younger.”

Guess what, buddy? They’re ALWAYS looking for someone younger. I guarantee you if they got Justin Bieber in for a meeting, as soon as he left they would be saying, “He’s great but it’s too bad we can’t get the Justin Bieber from two years ago.”

This almighty “They” will decide what happens to you. In this industry it is all about “They.” “They wanted a name”, “They need to reschedule”, “They aren’t taking on any new clients”, and so on and so forth until we’re all dead. They don’t care. If Hollywood was burning down and they could only save three things, they would save Tom Hanks and two cans of Diet Coke. Welcome to Los Angeles.

I wanted to get on my phone and talk about something ridiculous too. “We need more bees,” I would say. “There aren’t enough bees.”

There was a gorgeous (and frankly, rude) couple flying with me. The woman was blonde and looked like Sienna Miller. And even though she was obviously pregnant, she was still thinner than I was.

This is my city though. I’m not moving. I was born and raised here. Sometimes I like to flee to New York but I’m not ready to live there full time yet, though I did while I was in college and I loved it. But every now and then I would think about how cramped everything is and I would get nervous. I would pass furniture stores in the village the size of my bedroom at home in LA and I would think, “How do they get all that furniture in there?” and then, “How do they get it into those walk-up apartments?” Remember in Annie Hall when Alvy is worried that the universe is expanding and his parents are shouting at him not to worry about it? “What has the universe got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn! Brooklyn is not expanding!” his mother snaps. Why should I worry about how people get furniture into their apartment when it has nothing to do with me? But every once in a while the sheer density of Manhattan hits me and I feel a little trapped.

Los Angeles comes with a different trapped feeling. But I do love it here. I think perhaps I will stick to being a writer. Because if you’re a writer you can get really, really fat and no one will care. Until your publicist does. Oh LA, you’re great, don’t ever change, just keep getting younger.

I Wish I Knew Natalie Portman — K-OS

I really think I just hate everybody.

If you’re going to invite people to your housewarming and your housewarming is outside in 50 degree weather, you literally fail at having a housewarming, for your guests are neither in your house nor are they warm.

I mean that’s just simple logic.

That artichoke dip was good though, so thank you for that.

Can everyone just stop asking me what I do for a living? I know you’re not personally invested. No one is thinking, “Hi, nice to meet you, please tell me what it is you do, for upon meeting you I have decided to write your biography.” We ask to make a contest out of it. Oh, you make whistles for a nonprofit organization? I work for Sharon Fucking Stone. My anecdotes are better than yours. I win.

I don’t work for Sharon Stone. But I used to tell people that I was her personal assistant because it made for great small talk. No one actually gives a shit what you do for a living, so it’s not like I felt bad about lying. Especially because that’s a great lie that I could work with. I bet I know what being Sharon Stone’s assistant would be like. I would say, “I’m Sharon Stone’s personal assistant,” and give a smile that says something like, “Boy is she a handful, that Hollywood Legend, what are you gonna do, this town, right?” They would say something like, “Oh boy/really/wow” and I would say, “Yeah, today I had to pick up her favorite Diptyque candles down in Brentwood and they gave me the wrong ones. You can only imagine what that was like.” And they would chuckle and say, “Yeah, I bet.” Tell me that’s not an eerily accurate description of what Sharon Stone’s personal assistant does. I love Sharon Stone. I really do. No disrespect. She had to work with Michael Douglas. I think for that she should just automatically be given a Golden Globe. I think anyone who comes into personal contact with Michael Douglas should be at least nominated for a Golden Globe.

Perhaps I’m coming down too hard on people. Small talk is what we’re used to. We think we’re supposed to ask people what they do for a living. I would much rather know which member of The Babysitter’s Club was their favorite. Or if they’ve eaten at any good restaurants lately. Anything but what they do for a living. Because unless you’re about to tell me that you’re casting a film and you want to give me a line (and you’ll actually give me an imdb credit unlike that last film I was in that promised me one and then didn’t) then I don’t care. And you don’t care what I do. And that’s OK. That’s wonderful.

Are we really going to see each other again anyway? Actually the curse of living in LA, aside from Earthquakes (and getting mugged by Ludacris in Westwood Village because according to “Crash” that is very real and happens all the time) is that you are constantly running into the same people. And you have that heartstopping moment of, “Do I know this person? Do they know me? Do we pretend to know each other? Or do we actually know each other?”

And after you meet someone and hit it off, should you facebook them? Or did you simply mistake their beer buzz for a genuine interest in you? Once I met a friend of a friend and thought we would become best GFs. I thought we would be telling people at future parties, “When we met, we hit it off like a house on fire,” and laugh. I’ve always wanted to use that expression out loud. It hasn’t happened yet. And when it does happen, I really want it to mean something. My point is though that I didn’t become best GFs with that person; instead we are in facebook friend limbo. We know each other and we would probably, maybe recognize each other if we saw each other in person but beyond that there’s nothing there. And that’s a shame.

I’m pretty amazed that people still invite to places. Most of the time I have a good time and all of the time I keep my quiet hatred to myself. It’s just what people do.

Oh except for when I then go on my blog and complain. But come on. You’re going to have your housewarming outside? In January? Really? I know it’s Los Angeles but it actually gets chilly this time of year after sundown. I don’t care that you have a firepit. That doesn’t help at all. The goggles, they do nothing.

Really though please do continue to invite me to your parties, at heart I’m a nice person and I think that’s what’s important.