The one where I take out the riding crop and whip myself repeatedly

Today was super shitty. It was full of self-loathing and self-pitty. I think it all started with a package waiting for me by the door when I went out to deposit my tips at the bank. It was from Leo.

How many times can I possibly say I miss him while I continue to put one foot in front of the other?

I open the package. It has the mail that somehow never gets fowarded. There is a letter from the bank saying that I bounced a check, some catalogs for fancy housewares and a letter from my credit card telling me how I can lower my balance. The combination of all these things and the fact that they arrived from my old home, my home no more, just send me spinning.

I’m so broke. This year is flying by. Summer is just around the corner. What am I going to do next? Nothing ever works out the way I want it to. I’m so mediocre.

I decide to meditate but find it nearly impossible to quiet my mind.

I can’t meditate. What am I doing with my life?
I’m thirty-seven. Before I know it I will be thirty-eight. Focus on your breathing. Focus on your breathing.

It’s almost time for work but I want to do some reading.

Why do I always read so many books at once?
This is so overwhelming. My mom is always overwhelmed. I must get that from her.
I have to finish reading all the books I’m half reading. I’ll never get it done.
I read so much more in NY.

I can’t sit still and start getting ready.

What I’m going to do with myself. What is my next job going to be? I don’t want to live hand to mouth anymore. I don’t want to consume as much anymore.
Why do I always rely on pretty clothes and baubles to give my life meaning.
Liking beautiful things is not terrible. Buying things that I find stirring makes me feel inspired. Buying things makes me feel less creative.

I’ll never meet anyone.
I wish I had someone to distract me. I should put myself out there.
What does that mean? How do I do that? It’s really hard to meet people in LA.
I work at a restaurant. I meet lots of people everyday. I don’t have any single friends to go out with.

I walk down the long hotel-like hallways of my building.

Be present.
Come on stay present. Left foot, right foot. I’m a failure.
I never finish things. Nothing is going to change if I move.
I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.

I call my mom while driving to work.

“I feel so lost,” I tell her.

“I remember feeling how you felt but I don’t know what to say to you,” she says.
“I’m consumed by my own sorrow.”

What am I going to do with my life?
What am I going to do with my life? What am I going to do with my life?

“You just have to be more provocative in your writing, in your acting,” she says.

I’m so mediocre. I’m such a loser.
I’m such a failure.

“Just ask yourself what am I trying to say here that has never been said in this way. I can see what you have to do but I’m not quite sure how to tell you to do it.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. “Sometimes that happens to me with Lela. It’s just if I knew what I had to change I would change it. Carolina gave me a great idea about contacting everyone I know in NY about work.”

“I don’t want to stress you out in anyway but if you are going to go to New York you can’t just go there to see what happens. You have to go there with a concrete plan. You have to go there with interviews and meetings set up.”

I’m not good enough. I have no skills. I’m such a fraud.

I get to work and feel like crying. I continue to berate myself all night long. At the end of the night I drink an ube milkshake we had as a desert special and go home. I feel fat. My feet hurt. I whip myself over eating sugar when I said I wouldn’t get my fix at work then I try to put the riding crop away.