F*CK WRITING

Writing is hard. I put so much pressure on myself as if I’m figuring out my existence on this planet through the keyboard of my MacBook Air. I sit here with this desperate need to prove myself. To any man who broke my heart or even swiped left, to anyone who didn’t believe in me, to any acting teacher who told me that I wasn’t good as is and that I should change my appearance or voice in order to make it in this industry, to any asshole kid from my childhood who called me fat and made me cry, to any restaurant or bar manager who fired me and forced me to feel dumb, to any dick customers who were rude, to any guy who treated me nothing more than a sexual object for themselves, to any selfish man who I slept with who wasn’t at all curious about my clit, to anyone who lied or deceived me or even cut me in line, to anyone who unfollowed me on Instagram or Twitter, to anyone who honked at me on the road, to anyone who has not invited me to their 4th of July Day parties and then obnoxiously post about it, and then to my father for not loving me the way I should have been loved and to whomever killed my mother and then dumped her lifeless body at a grocery store parking lot with her breasts hanging out as if she were merely just a piece of trash…


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A letter to 16 year old me

If I could talk to 16 year old Dixie, I would tell her this:

Yes, it sucks right now. No doubt about it. This pain you’re experiencing is some top level shiiiiiit. If the heartache were a tequila, it would be on the top shelf. I would say hold off on the tequila, but I know you won’t. The death of your grandmother is changing you more than ever. More than a drivers license. More than college. Even more than losing your virginity. This feeling. This loss. This pain. This is transforming you into a wise soul beyond your teenage years. You might not realize it, but you’re also crying for your mother. I know you don’t remember her, but you do remember this longing of home. Belonging to something bigger. And this is something you’ll be chasing for years to come.

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Canned Soup

Our pool was green growing up. My dad said that chlorine wasn’t healthy for the skin. But really, there wasn’t any money left to pay for a pool guy. We were all living off of my murdered mother’s inheritance. My dad was basically a kid just like me and my brother. He never worked like other dads did and was always home. He was either watching TV, having sex with whomever, or at the typewriter retyping W.B. Yeats poems and other writers’ work that he liked when he was younger. My dad was tall and strong and opened up soup and Chef Boyardee Ravioli cans and other bottles that were hard to open. I still have a hard time opening up things because I would never even try when I was younger. I had no desire to learn. I didn’t need to feel accomplished that way. I’d always go straight to my dad. Well, not when he was upstairs having sex with whomever. I knew not to interrupt and ask him to open up a soup can. If he was preoccupied like that, I’d then go to my older brother and ask him to open up the soup can. The worst would be if my dad was having sex with somebody AND my brother would be in the garage (which was his bedroom), and he’d be with his girlfriend having sex presumably.  Then, I’d just have cereal.

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6 nights and 5 days

Last week I spent 6 days and 5 nights with women who had lost their mother’s at an early age. It was called a Motherless Daughthers retreat. I signed up last September. Honestly, it was a whim decision. I was sad and on the internet one afternoon, (always a dangerous combination), and there was money in my bank account. The retreat seemed like it was going to be in a beautiful location in Santa Cruz. You know, it’s always nice to leave Los Angeles from time to time. Plus, the program was led by these two amazing writers whom I’ve always wanted to meet. So I said fuck it and just forked over some dough and then kinda forgotten about it as time passed. Recently, I’ve been in less pain about my mother. (She was murdered when I was one). I mean, there’s always going to be an underlining sadness in me, but I’ve embraced it. This blog has helped. Being in therapy has helped. So I wasn’t really jonesing for a getaway. But alas, the time came, and I had to show up to this thing. 

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My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory is probably of when I was around two years old, I was unabashedly chasing a cockroach down our pumpkin-orange linoleum kitchen floor. I must have been barefoot, wearing only a diaper and ecstatically giggling while doing so. Then, out of nowhere, the  cockroach decided to stop, turn towards me and dart my way. My laughter turned into a scream of panic. I started running away from the cockroach, crying hysterically and afraid for my life. 

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