fact vs. fiction.

i am not really a fiction writer. in fact, i really suck at it. my whole life i've always yearned and stretched for a creative outlet. whether it was smearing my ghostbuster's ink stamp set all over my bedroom walls at the age of six, 'YOU GOT SLIMERED!', writing plays for my 2nd grade reading class to perform for our parents, (Frankie and the Unicorns, sadly, was not exactly a smash), or getting a D in 5th grade with my less than mad saxophone/french horn skill in band, I always wanted some sort of channel or access to be creative.

Junior high came and went, along with my witchcraft/ouija board storytelling obsession. High school hung out for four years where I experimented with typical teenage angst and lameass "i wish i had a boyfriend" poetry. College, well, I guess I'll write arts&entertainment and cd reviews for the paper. Then grown up world, where at first, the only thing I'd write would be drunken letters to friends or scribbles about how lousy my last lay was in my diary. (Yep, I kept a diary until the ripe old age of 22).

Now I'm here. 27 and something. Bored? Probably. Trying to figure out what to do with all this free time I have. I've been attempting to keep busy writing music reviews, just like the college years, but maybe a few more readers, with a variety of blogs, magazines and websites. Sometimes I want a little more than that, though. Like a novel or something. Something long. Something conversational. Something NOT about the hip new band you'll all wish you listened to before after reading my article, but by the time you come around to reading it, guess what? the band's not relevant anymore. Such is the industry. Such is life, or at least mine, anyway.

I've always written about what I know, to some extent anyway. So I'm sitting here, and let's just say I've had a rough day, week, month, whatever. Nothing too extreme, but I'm feeling a little shook up and confused. It's times like these when I just start typing. Not sure what the next three words will say, let alone paragraphs. Let alone, chapters. Whatever. I one time sat down out of boredom and wrote a ten page story about lesbians. It might be backlogged on this blog, I don't know. At the time I didn't know why I wrote it or where anything came from, but I felt pretty good about it. I felt good that the words came magically, unbeknownst to me at the time of their creation. I felt good that I was able to stay sitting, slurping my coffee and keep manically typing away until I was complete.

I showed it to a couple friends. Not a single person said a word back to me. Not one. I know at least three people read it, but not a word. So, I'm taking that as a sign of "Jodi, I love you, but your fiction skills, my dear, they blow." And that's fine. Becuase i was writing more for me than for them anyway. An outlet. Let out the steam. It's my exercise of all the crazy scenarios floating around in my head.

Right now, personally, I'm feeling a little lost and a little lonesome. I don't care that any of you read this know this, whatever, it's human nature, right? Last night I was thinking on some past experiences and tried to put my current situation(s) into perspective. Needless to say, this didn't last long and within five minutes of "deep thought," I found myself back on facebook, clicking on pictures of former classmates. I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of all this vanity. All these games. All this running around and trying to exert myself for everyone except myself. The thing is, I don't know how to please myself or do things for me. If I did, I can assure you I wouldn't be wasting this sunny 70 degree summer day in my dark bedroom, typing maniacally to avoid my own inner thoughts.

So, I wrote something today. I'm not happy with it. I thought it started out okay, and I once again was bit with the 'ghost-writer' bug I had when I wrote my sucky lesbo-love story, so I went with it. Why the hell not. But then I realized some of the aspects may have been more towards the non-fiction than fictional aspects, so I tried to make up new characters, and throw additional twists in. And the ending result? Quite frankly, an overblown and exhausting piece of shit, "woe is me, i am a girl" story with no conculsion. So please, spare yourself and quit reading this post now. I just can't bring myself to delete/remove it, because then the past hour and a half of typing would be wasted.

With that, I'm going on a bike ride.

xo,

jodi

_______________________________________________



"It's time, sweetheart," she murmured in my ear.

"No, just five more minutes," grumbling, rolling over back into my nest of cushions and depression.

"No, really. Get your ass up." Leslie grabbed my upper arm and flipped me over in my bed. "You've been lying here, day after day, wallowing in your self pity. Time to get your ass out of bed, into that shower and out into the real world."

"The real world can suck my dick, I'm fucking tired. Let me sleep."

"Jenna, listen to me. Now." Leslie was giving me the 'if-you-don't-do-as-I-say-this-exact-moment-I-will-make-the-rest-of-your-life-a-living-hell' look. I caved and sat up, stretching my arms above my ratnest bedhead and swung both feet on the floor. "Now I know shit sucks right now, but what the fuck ever. You can't go on about this asshole loser forever. The job thing is temporary, you'll find something awesome and someone awesome, surely. But not with this woe is me bullshit apathy attitude. You have to fucking want it, and work for it." Transitioning into a coy, mischievious and playful tone, Leslie smiled. "Soooo, we're going on a trip."

"No benjamins, sister. No can do," I grumbled, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"None needed. I borrowed my sister's car. I have the next three days off from the office. We're going camping."

"Fuck that shit, I'm not sleeping with no bugs." I protested, grabbing my pair of shorts from the floor, slipping into them and heading to the shower.

"Who said anything about bugs? I didn't tell you WHERE we're camping," she flashed that smile again.

"Ok, I give. WHERE are we camping?"

"Kansas City," her smile broadened.

"What the fuck is in Kansas City? No way, no how. Not sleeping outside, not driving nine hours to do it."

"Well, you see, we're not necessarily camping outside, more so, on someone's couch."

"Whose? Fuck this, this is stupid. Out with it, what's your stupid big plan?"

"Don't you remember who lives there? A certain somebody you used to know and bore me to sleep with on a nightly basis back in college?"

I paused and tried to think. My head was still groggy with sleep and my unusal sequence of dreams from the night-who am I kidding-afternoon/morning before. That's the real kicker about depression, time is meaningless. It's your biggest opportunity yet strongest enemy. When you lose all to complete apathy, it doesn't matter one bit what numbers are flashing on your digital alarm clock. It's just a reminder to pay xyz bills on time and how much later Walgreen's is open. Depression rules. It's my favorite pastime. Laying in emptiness, no excuses, no obligations, just existing. Sort of, anyway. As much as I tried to think, though, all I could remember was the kitty water balloon parade I had dreamt half-awake, making up all the details I wanted to happen in my dream, but didn't, clutching my body pillow tight, sucking in my drool puddle. "Kitties," I mumbled, smiling in thought.

"Jesus Christ Jenna. You are a genius. That is exactly right. We are going to visit some kitties in Kansas City. Good god." She yanked the pillow I had reclutched in my grip away and pushed me towards the bathroom. "Take your damned shower. I'll pack your bag. The car's here and waiting, only thing waiting is you."

"Blah blah blah!" I obnoxiously shrieked, stomping my way into the shower.

Good god, this shower has overheated water. No matter how many times I turn the rusted knobs, more cold, less hot, the hotter the water gets. Today I didn't give a shit. At least I felt something, even if it was just the scalding pressure tearing away at my sensitive skin. Something about the pain served as a nice little reminder, like at least I can feel something.

I thought back on the topic at hand. Kansas City. Who the fuck do I know in Kansas City? I was friends with a couple of kids a few years younger than me last year who were from there. I haven't talked to any of them though since Lara moved to Washington. Leslie didn't even know those girls so there's no way that's who we are visitng. I suddenly remembered her mentioning college. College? That was five-six fucking years ago, and Leslie didn't even attend the same university as me. But we did have lenghty phone dates. I didn't have any friends at school from there, so that's out. I mainly dated scrubby little drunk punk kids who were as disposable as my lady bic razors, so I subtracted them from the equation.

Then I thought of the radio station. Man, those were the years when everything was right. Sure, I was lonely and scared of whatever came post-collegiate years for sure, but for the moment, living in the moment, the right. fucking. now. moment of it all, that was perfect. I had my own space. I had motivation. I had aspirations to do whatever the fuck I felt like. AND my metabolism was banging. I could inhale greasy ass pizza and soda like nobody's business and get away without a single sit-up and still have the figure of a slender 21-year old girl. Damn. But yeah, back on track here, radio station. . .  Someone at the station? A label contact? A promoter? Then it hit me. Nolle. How could I have forgotten??? But then again, did he live in Kansas City? I remember he was from Missouri, but the one of two steamy times I had met up with him were in St. Louis. Aaaaand bam, Kansas City.

But how the fuck would Leslie have known how to get in touch with him? And what would she have said? And WHY would she have reached out to him? Furiously scrubbing, I tried to quickly rinse the shampoo out of my hair so I could confront her. God. If it's him. If it's really him, I'm screwed. This is the one man who fucking grabbed my heart instantaneously without ever even seeing me. Our conversations together. The drunk personal dials. The flirtatious texting. It was all too much. One time post college when I had been in my relationship with Jason, I had reached out to Nolle via MySpace and got reaquainted. Things started to get a little too flirtatious on both ends, and suddenly, like our connection had restarted, ended. How did that ever end? I thought. . . . couldn't quite remember. Stepping out of the shower, I made a grab for the burgundy towel draped over my radiator and wrapped it around my wet, glistening body.

"Leslie??!" I shouted, "You goddamn whore, what are you up to???"

"Figure it out yet?" she laughed from the other room, "I have your things packed, don't worry," she winked at me as I stomped into my bedroom. "I grabbed all your sexiest panties and party dresses. You just gotta get yourself dressed and grab your make-up. We got plenty of time on the road for you to get all dolled up."

I just stared at her, blankly. I couldn't believe that this was happening. I couldn't even digest it. I eyed my crumpled up blankets on my queen sized bed and yearned to be hiding under their protection, making up dreams about kitties and parades. Leslie caught my glance, "Don't. Even. Think. About it."

Sighing, I grabbed some clothes from the corner they had occupied on my bedroom floor, threw them on and ran a comb through my hair, throwing my shoulder length wet black locks in a clumsy ponytail. "So what the fuck is going on, anyway?"

"Dude, I'm so sick of all your shit. You've been in denial about your dying relationship for god knows how long, you are so fucking lazy you can't even show up for coffee dates with your girlfriends anymore, let alone even think about getting a job. You just talk to your cat all day and lock yourself in your bedroom with that nasty ass Chinese weight loss tea, which just gives you fucking diarrhea, by the way, and mope. I miss you. You used to be fun. Fuck this loser asshole and fuck your woe is me pity parade. I'm taking you out for some fun. I know you used to be apeshit bananas over this dude and I think it'd be fun to see what happens. I found him through his band's page on MySpace, who sucks very much, by the way, and we're going to go pay a little visit. I told him we were driving through town for a wedding and had a couple days to kill on the way back. He doesn't know we're driving down there specifically for him, so you don't need to worry about that. He offered up his couches for us, although I doubt we'll need both of them," she mocked, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

"ugh. I can't even think of this right now!! I'm still sort of with Eric and I've got a lot of shit to figure out before I can go on your stupid sisterhood travelling pants fascade bullshit. Leslie, I really shouldn't go."

"Dude, wake the fuck up. That's all I'm saying. Didn't you have plans yesterday? Oh wait, somebody blew them off. And today? Oh right, that's why I'm here instead of somebody else. Get over it and get your fat ass into my car."

Knowing I'd be kicking myself later for just wasting away another sunny day in bed, I decided to play along. I grabbed my packed bookbag and threw my toothbrush, cell charger and glasses inside, zipped it up and left my roommate a note, reading, "Gone, couple days. Do me a favor and make sure G-Unit doesn't die? His food is in the pantry, I should be back by Thursday. Gimme call if you need anything."

Locked the doors up, headed to the purple Honda waiting in the alley and wondered what the hell I had just gotten myself into.

"Don't worry Jenna, I got your Justin Bieber mix right here and waiting for you," Leslie smirked, offering up a blank cd into her car player.

"Fuck you, dude. Gimme a break, I hate that fucktard. He looks like a little lesbian and sounds like a chipmunk. Let's bump something real heavy, like say," I shuffled through her cd wallet, "Nada Surf. Yep. Here we go, I'm popular."

"You will never lose your charm, Miss J. Never. You piece of sarcastic shit," Leslie laughed, yanking the offered cd out of my grip. "Time to roll out sister, now or never."

And with that, we started the car and embarked on our 9-hour car ride.

I'm going to cut the rest of these little quirky conversations and the play by play of what really happened short here. We didn't make it to Kansas City. We didn't even make it 40 miles out from where we left. After stopping for a quick pee break and a bottle of water, Leslie confessed to me that she never called Nolle. That she didn't even ask permission from her sister to borrow her car. She had just wanted to see what my reaction would have been like and was going to try and convince me to upright and move with her, then and there, wherever the fuck we wound up. I appreciated where she was coming from and everything she did to get me out of bed, but in all honesty, I wasn't quite ready to give up what I had at home just yet. I had friends. I had a boyfriend, well kind of, anyway. I had an apartment. A cat. No job, yet, anyway, but that could easily enough be resolved. I did want to get away. I did want to run, as fast as I could, without turning back and just say fuck ya'll I'm out. But I couldn't. At this point in my life I felt too absurd of a strong connection to remain where I was and to tough the shittiest shit out. I didn't know how. I still don't. But I know that running away to Kansas City or Atlanta wasn't the answer. If I couldn't find happiness where I was currently, how was I to find it elsewhere? I knew everything was within myself. I just had to want to find it.

So thanks to my friend, I woke up that Tuesday morning/afternoon, whenever the hell she rolled my ass out of bed. Not to the point where I've succeeded in accomplishing whatever it is I want to be when I grow up, but I know now there are options and I can quote-unquote, escape and throw it all out the window. That's not how I roll, though. And I know that looking back into the past, especially that of an old flame, isn't the solution either.