I'm not much of a gambler.
Except of course the gamble I made following my acting dreams.
Or the gamble I made with my life that night I consumed half a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Or the recent gamble I made this past weekend taking my crazy in-financial-debt ass on a trip to Las Vegas.
Okay so I gamble all the time.
It just wasn't until this trip to Las Vegas that I actually GAMBLED gambled, like at a table with chips, and a dealer, and some middle-aged cocktail waitress in an ill fitted outfit that's basically had it with your shit before she's brought you your first cocktail.
I have previously had no use for trading my hard earned cash in exchange for multi-colored monopoly pieces to partake in a game of chance. A game that's designed for the house to win and everyone else to loose. I guess this time I figured 'if you can't beat them, join them' and seeing as all my friends were gathered around the Black Jack table, the thought of going off alone to pull lever's for pennies seemed unappealing. And yes, I'm talking about the slot machines.
So there I was in my shorts, crop top, and a neon pink mesh back hat that read THE GOAT (rewards from a conquest the night prior). A rather frail, mild mannered Indian woman stood behind the table seemingly misplaced for all the power she now held over us. I threw down a crisp hundred dollar bill onto the plush, vibrant colored table and was handed a stack of red colored chips. The cards were dealt by her swift, professional hand as I took a sip from my free beer, feeling like a BOSS ASS BITCH.
That was until it disappeared faster than most of my previous relationships.
I'd like to say I had any willpower and decided to cut myself off but by this point several Heinekens have made their way into my bloodstream and my inhibitions were down. What was really the harm, I thought, in pulling out another 40 bucks...in fact while I'm at it why not 60?
Good thing I don't have a gambling problem (or any money to my name), but it didn't stop me from pulling out another hundred bucks the next night as well. I can't say I didn't have a blast though. Every time I won I jumped (literally out of my chair) for joy and started hooting and hollering like the obnoxious, easily excited, child I am. When I lost there was the excitement of possible winnings on the next hand. The problem was that while I was playing by the 'book' I wasn't paying attention to what was on the rest of the table. And the cards weren't really in my favor. So much for beginners luck.
I won in other ways this weekend. Swimming in our glorious pool under a giant Eiffel Tower at the Paris Hotel in the Vegas sun. Free entrance to the hottest clubs on the strip. Sneaking past security to meet Ne-Yo. Consuming a delicious steak dinner at the sister restaurant I work for with VIP service. Overall the real win, what made all the money I gambled and spent truly worth it, was getting to spend time with my favorite people in the world, trampling around Vegas like we were going to die young.
I don't regret any of my losses, but I find myself sitting here now a BROKE ass bitch, trying to pick up doubles at my godforsaken job, the looming ghost of a career dream still breathing down my neck. Post Vacation Depression is a real thing and it has always hit me pretty hard. The thrill of travel sends me soaring and I can soak up all it's beauty and excitement and feel truly fulfilled. Then when I am back, I realize my life is exactly the same as I left it. A mess.
A beautiful, adventure filled, raging mess.
There's a part of me that wants it this way, that likes it this way. It's a mess I made after all and I am completely aware of all the wrong turns and backing up out of it I have made through the years. Part of me just feels ill equipped to even handle life at all. I have a vagabond spirit that doesn't innately like rules or responsibility or a sense that I can't at any moment drop it all for something else.
It's why I live in New York. It's why I don't have a boyfriend. It's why I don't partake in the 9-5 grind.
I have a soul that most days is urging me to take off all my clothes and run stark naked through the streets of New York causing mass chaos. Let's face it, even in my right mind I've pushed the acceptable limit of running around partially clothed in public a few times.
Life to me is most poignant when shit is fucked up. Who needs neat piles and pressed shirts and dull conversation from timid lips? In the end it's all over and what did any of it mean anyway? Why are we even here? And why is it so hard? And why don't any of us seem to ever have an answer?
And so my mind begins to fall down it's slippery slope to my ultimate anxiety attacks that leave me paralyzed in my bed starring at my ceiling like I did this morning. No clue what to do because I don't really know what I want.
What I do know is as exciting as uprooting my life and moving out to Vegas seems it won't take me away form the key to all my problems. Myself.
And while I can run around making money, partying around the globe, dancing on tables, or stages, or poles, after all the excitement wears away, the only thing I will have truly lost is time. Time I should have spent making something of myself.
You know, right now I'm not really sure what that something is. I thought I knew but all my childhood dreams seem to have betrayed me. Or maybe I betrayed them.
All I know is once I figure out what it is I truly want, I won't be scared to place my bet, and take a gamble.
A Broke-ass-thank-you-Vegas Record.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Like Mother
For as long as I can remember I have harbored a deathly fear of three things; spiders, the execution of mathematical equations, and becoming my mother.
A prime example of freudian behavior, I grew up idolizing my father and resenting my mother. Maybe it's because my father would take us to Six Flags while my mother nagged us to vacuum the house. My father introduced me to the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. My mother tried to put prunes in my oatmeal. My father would make us watch films of great directors such as Stanley Kubrick, and Quentin Tarantino and gave us books by authors like Tolk, Robbins, and Vonnegut. My mother fell asleep during action flicks.
My father was the coolest. My mother was the bane of my existence.
I would like to note here, that between the ages of 13-17 I took this resentment and used it to sharpen my vicious vocabulary in the emotionally scaring battles that took place between my mother and I. We all know woman are the great goddesses of things said between breaths that make you wish you'd never been born, but this emotional manipulation takes on new forms when between mother and daughter.
The things I have said to my mother are actually atrocious and I have forgotten most of them for good reason. I like to think we have grown out of the "epic fights" stage but even now, a simple phone conversation will start with "Hey just wanted to see how you were?"and five seconds later I'm rolling my eyes shouting "MOM WHY DON'T YOU EVER LISTEN! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND."
It's like I HULK out on her. Who the hell was that talking to her own mother like that? Me? Oh, yeah. Me.
I should be ashamed. I should be disowned. But not by my mother.
You see, my mother has an uncanny ability to forgive. She is possibly the most self-less, caring, loving person I've ever met. I mean, maybe everyone thinks that about their mother, but I'm talking from a third person perspective. She is so damn good, and I mean that all encompassing. It's damn near saintly.
You would never know I shared that woman's DNA. Even she doesn't always believe I'm hers.
My mother, while I was home this past week, handed me this little journal she used to write in while she was pregnant with me. I sat down to read it, flipping through the pages of her barely eligible script. I stopped at this one entry written the day of my first birthday. She writes,
"I really want the best for you, and I want you to grow into the best person that you can be, whatever you decide to do in life be happy doing it. Be kind and considerate of others. Be unselfish and giving. Try to treat others the way you want to be treated. I'll try to teach you everything I've learned about life but I'm sure there will be times when you won't want to hear me tell you about things. You'll want to discover them for yourself. But I'll be here for you always when you need me. I hope that I can hep you in the struggles that we all have to encounter from time to time and I hope that I can be there for all the happy and momentous occasions that you have to look forward to. From the bottom of my heart. Happy Birthday to you!"
Tears came pouring out. I openly wept on my childhood bed, in my childhood room as it really sank in just how much my mother loved me. How as of late, I have grown into this kind of monster that writes about all her scandalous thoughts and actions on the internet and how she continues to be there for me with her undying support. Her love has been so strong and steady and unassuming that I think I have barely taken notice. But that's my mother. Never the one at a party to stick out with a loud mouth or obnoxious dance moves, but usually the one behind the scenes making sure the whole party runs smooth.
And here I am just tearing it up on the dance floor, not giving any fucks.
When I started this blog I have to say I was fully prepared to get a swift slap to the head. I knew that if I was going to do it right and spit the honest truth about where it was I had been and where it is I am going in this twenty-something post-grad stage things would come up I'd really rather the mom and pops not know. But now they know.
And instead of disowning me, they gave me support. Okay, so they flipped out for a second. But now I know I have their support. My pops even commented on the last publishing of the Lost Boys post
"Unfortunately, all these losers can never approach the all-around greatness of the first man in your life, your Daddy!"
Very true Dad.
I know I don't always say it, but Mom and Dad, I love you and I thank you for being the best parents a kid could have asked for. I know all those rules and "restrictions" you placed on me was for my own damn good and let's face it, I wouldn't have been a normal kid without having broken a few. At the end of the day though, I don't know another pair on this planet who could have better cared for and loved me and my big, fat mouth.
I used to say I got the worst of both worlds from you guys. But if I really think about it, I got the best.
So before this blog of mine continues further, I need them to know that I thank them for my life, I thank them for my overall nature, I thank them for that American Girl Doll I begged for who now resides in the attic.
Mom, I know you always say "you can't be my daughter" when I tell you about my liberal ideologies or that I just booked a flight to Asia on a whim, but I am here to tell you I most certainly can.
And I can only hope when I grow up, that I'll be a whole lot like you.
Thanks for giving birth to this Broken Record
A prime example of freudian behavior, I grew up idolizing my father and resenting my mother. Maybe it's because my father would take us to Six Flags while my mother nagged us to vacuum the house. My father introduced me to the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. My mother tried to put prunes in my oatmeal. My father would make us watch films of great directors such as Stanley Kubrick, and Quentin Tarantino and gave us books by authors like Tolk, Robbins, and Vonnegut. My mother fell asleep during action flicks.
My father was the coolest. My mother was the bane of my existence.
I would like to note here, that between the ages of 13-17 I took this resentment and used it to sharpen my vicious vocabulary in the emotionally scaring battles that took place between my mother and I. We all know woman are the great goddesses of things said between breaths that make you wish you'd never been born, but this emotional manipulation takes on new forms when between mother and daughter.
The things I have said to my mother are actually atrocious and I have forgotten most of them for good reason. I like to think we have grown out of the "epic fights" stage but even now, a simple phone conversation will start with "Hey just wanted to see how you were?"and five seconds later I'm rolling my eyes shouting "MOM WHY DON'T YOU EVER LISTEN! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND."
It's like I HULK out on her. Who the hell was that talking to her own mother like that? Me? Oh, yeah. Me.
I should be ashamed. I should be disowned. But not by my mother.
You see, my mother has an uncanny ability to forgive. She is possibly the most self-less, caring, loving person I've ever met. I mean, maybe everyone thinks that about their mother, but I'm talking from a third person perspective. She is so damn good, and I mean that all encompassing. It's damn near saintly.
You would never know I shared that woman's DNA. Even she doesn't always believe I'm hers.
My mother, while I was home this past week, handed me this little journal she used to write in while she was pregnant with me. I sat down to read it, flipping through the pages of her barely eligible script. I stopped at this one entry written the day of my first birthday. She writes,
"I really want the best for you, and I want you to grow into the best person that you can be, whatever you decide to do in life be happy doing it. Be kind and considerate of others. Be unselfish and giving. Try to treat others the way you want to be treated. I'll try to teach you everything I've learned about life but I'm sure there will be times when you won't want to hear me tell you about things. You'll want to discover them for yourself. But I'll be here for you always when you need me. I hope that I can hep you in the struggles that we all have to encounter from time to time and I hope that I can be there for all the happy and momentous occasions that you have to look forward to. From the bottom of my heart. Happy Birthday to you!"
Tears came pouring out. I openly wept on my childhood bed, in my childhood room as it really sank in just how much my mother loved me. How as of late, I have grown into this kind of monster that writes about all her scandalous thoughts and actions on the internet and how she continues to be there for me with her undying support. Her love has been so strong and steady and unassuming that I think I have barely taken notice. But that's my mother. Never the one at a party to stick out with a loud mouth or obnoxious dance moves, but usually the one behind the scenes making sure the whole party runs smooth.
And here I am just tearing it up on the dance floor, not giving any fucks.
When I started this blog I have to say I was fully prepared to get a swift slap to the head. I knew that if I was going to do it right and spit the honest truth about where it was I had been and where it is I am going in this twenty-something post-grad stage things would come up I'd really rather the mom and pops not know. But now they know.
And instead of disowning me, they gave me support. Okay, so they flipped out for a second. But now I know I have their support. My pops even commented on the last publishing of the Lost Boys post
"Unfortunately, all these losers can never approach the all-around greatness of the first man in your life, your Daddy!"
Very true Dad.
I know I don't always say it, but Mom and Dad, I love you and I thank you for being the best parents a kid could have asked for. I know all those rules and "restrictions" you placed on me was for my own damn good and let's face it, I wouldn't have been a normal kid without having broken a few. At the end of the day though, I don't know another pair on this planet who could have better cared for and loved me and my big, fat mouth.
I used to say I got the worst of both worlds from you guys. But if I really think about it, I got the best.
So before this blog of mine continues further, I need them to know that I thank them for my life, I thank them for my overall nature, I thank them for that American Girl Doll I begged for who now resides in the attic.
Mom, I know you always say "you can't be my daughter" when I tell you about my liberal ideologies or that I just booked a flight to Asia on a whim, but I am here to tell you I most certainly can.
And I can only hope when I grow up, that I'll be a whole lot like you.
Thanks for giving birth to this Broken Record
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