Bugger

I'm stealing the title of the post from my cat's blog. How sad is that? How much sadder is it that my cat has a blog? And that her posts are infinitely more fun to read? Go read them, she is very bright and computer-savvy. Like A Mews. Even my cat makes fun of my blog name.

I'm having a bad day. This is not your cue to sing that song. You know that song. The one that goes, "You had a bad day something, something, something, something you had a bad day." You know what I'm talking about. I hate that song. I hate it so much. It's whiny and self-indulgent and just a terrible, terrible song. It's so bad! I hate it! It's stuck in my goddamn head now.

The cherry on the icing of my shit sundae today came when I checked the mail and my Cat Fancy Magazine was not in it. How sad is it that not getting Cat Fancy is what's tipping the scales? And no, I didn't subscribe myself to it. I'm not that pathetic. It was a gift from my thoughtful boyfriend. He bought me a year's subscription. It would be truly pathetic if I got myself a subscription to Cat Fancy. I'll probably renew it at the end of the year. They're featuring a Bombay cat on the cover this next month and I want it as my kitty is a Bombay cat. I saw it when I was at Petco. I went to Petco two days in a row. To get cat food for my cat and to take my cat to get her claws trimmed. Because I don't like getting a blood transfusion every time I try to do it myself. I like Petco. I like all the animals they have. This is why I shouldn't be allowed to go to Petco. I waste precious "writing time" there, trying to get amphibians to love me. Except nowhere else carries my spoiled fat kitty's food. Science Diet Light for ages 1-6, "for optimum weight control," if you were curious. Let's take a moment to look at the pictures I took as I stood there wishing I could own every animal there. Especially the bug-eyed, long-tongued variety of animal.




I took a picture of a goddamn tarantula and thought it was cute. What is wrong with me?

I would like a skink one day though. The one they usually have was not there anymore. I hope he got a good home. Skink spam!





They're so very cute with their blue tongues. I wish to own many. There were other lizards there too. I got to watch them eat lunch. They chomped on live crickets and made the best faces.


Awww, they're kissing. Oh skinks. You inspire sonnets you muses of the reptile world.

So I'm having a bad day. I've gotten rejected so many times from so many jobs that when I got today's rejection email, I didn't even remember applying to the place. Just as well. It was in New York.

I really wish I had my Cat Fancy. Looking at cute kitties calms me down. Oh screw you, I like animals. Leave me alone.

I'm working on a novel and a screenplay. How pretentious does that sound? How sad is it that I can't get moving on either one even though I have piles of notes on my phone, on my iPod, on the sticky notes on my computer, and various other places. Isn't it sad that the reason is okay, what if I do write them. And manage to edit them well. Then submit them to Gersh who said I could. Then what? They're just going to read and give me coverage? Piss on that, I can do that myself thank you very much, it's my goddamn job. Or worse, send it back and say meh.

I'm having a bad day. My cat keeps peeing in secret corners. She also gets scared after pooping and runs out of the bathroom with her litterbox and wipes her paws like a madwoman on my rug. I really don't know what to do. She obviously has some bathroom trauma that I can't fix. Maybe I need a pet psychic. Maybe I need my damn Cat Fancy, it could have helpful advice. Maybe it's a Bombay cat thing but I won't know until the damn issue arrives.

Oh, but I got a letter from my best friend. She included a full-page ad for SPAM (with an exclusive offer for sterling silver spoon rings on the back) and a picture of us in fifth grade.


I'm the ugly dork in glasses. She's the one in the middle. The other girl is someone who went to elementary and middle school with us. I'm friends with her on Facebook but beyond that I don't think I've talked to her in about ten years.

I hate that, "You had a bad day," song so goddamn much.

She also sent this picture of a fire extinguisher dressed up in a bandanna and straw hat with a card calling me an, "awesome and bestest friend."


I guess it's not that bad a day. As long as I have a picture of a fire extinguisher dressed up in a bandanna and straw hat.

Ch-ch-cherry Bomb

One of my livejournal friends is doing a 30 day meme. Yesterday she wrote about herself, today she wrote about her first love, and it's something for everyday for 30 days. Reading about her first love made me realize, for probably the 9th time this week alone, how very different everyone else's middle and high school years were from mine. I don't want to write another long entry about feeling like I missed out on everything because that's self-indulgent and whiny and there are many parts of my life that I wouldn't trade the memories of for the world. But it just seems clearer and clearer to me that people who can and do write do it because they have experience and adventures to draw from. Maybe, I am meant to be just a reader? I've buried myself in books since I could read, perhaps the rest of my life should just be that too? I mean, technically I am a reader though we're going on month two of barely any books. Maybe that should just be the end all. It wouldn't be too much of waste, helping others tell their stories?

The Runaways is showing on my On Demand. There's another story about little girls who acted like much older girls and lived crazy, amazing lives. Putting aside all the sex and drugs and drama- er, rock 'n 'roll, just look at them. I've been hunting for old pictures because man, they had great style. Short shorts and leather catsuits might not really work in my daily life but hey, I work from home for now. I could totally start dressing like them.









Actually, I just remembered I recently got a pair of leather shorts. No, no not like lederhosen. Great, now I have that image in my head.

Bawww

Today I submitted my resume to publishing companies in New York. It will be very funny if after making my shaky peace with being in Boston (therefore, not in L.A. or not in New York), I actually get a response from a New York house. Oh how I will laugh. How I will chortle.

Bah, no one responds or bothers to looks at resumes and cover letters outside of in-house ones. Not fair. I will curl up and just watch crappy sitcoms. Bah to writing, bah to working, bah, bah, bah. It's not even Christmas and I'm not a sheep or other crabby-voices farm animal but BAH.

I am 25 in two weeks and I have wasted my early twenties. Wait, I went to grad school. Oh how it's helped me! Sing, chorus of angels, sing!

Aren't emo entries like this usually reserved for high schoolers? Apparently I am a late bloomer when it comes to everything.

Hot Little Summer Girl

I don't know why, but summer has always been the shittiest time of year for me. And yes I will swear.

When I was in school it was never the have-fun-with-your-friends extravaganza that American TV shows and films would have you believe because I went to an international school and in the summer, everyone would go back to their respective homes. Not in Turkey. My home was Turkey, so I'd of course be left all alone. I think it was in my last year of high school that I actually had people to hang out with in the summer because even my best friends would go visit family in various parts of the world.

Then in college, again I was in a different country. So while it seems that Americans tend to go to school near their homes (seriously, this confused the hell out of me. Not one of my friends was as close to their family as I was/am and yet the furthest they lived was 3 hours. By car. Okay, there were the token out-of-staters but still) I crossed an ocean every summer to go see my family. And subsequently sat at home for four months.

I used to go to summer camp in the Adirondacks when I was younger. I went five summers and yes I had a lot of fun. But looking back now, and thinking about myself then, it was sour probably a third of the time. Let's see, it was the first time I ever, sincerely, got called ugly. Superficial? Yes. Does it bother me? Yes. Does it bother me now? No, the kid was a little shit. Am I bitter? Well, I'm still thinking about it ten years later, what do you think?

My sort-of breakdown happened in the summer. As did my next one. Health problems, deaths, worries, all come swimming to the surface in the summer as if they know the sea is all right for entry, so they have to muck it up somehow.

I can remember one, just one, absolutely perfect summer in my 24, 25 in September, years. It was when I was 19 and was stuck in Boston for summer classes but ended up having so much fun for the 6 weeks I was there. Then, I was in Houston with my mom and sister and little cousin and we had so much fun there, albeit burning to a crisp every time we stepped foot outdoors.

I promised myself, I swore to the heavens, somewhat literally, that this summer would be great. No sadness, no badness, just radness if you'll allow me to be lame. Now, I thank the universe and God that this summer isn't a horrific mess. I am grateful that I have my family and my boyfriend will be coming soon, and we have nice days ahead.

But...

It's still summer. It's still clouded with uncertainty and blahness and don't even get me started on the heat. I can't stand heat. People might complain about warm weather and humidity but I hate it. I don't use the word hate, in fact I recently had a conversation about the word hate and how strong it is and how it shouldn't be tossed around carelessly because words are important. It is with complete certainty and absolute calm that I proclaim, I HATE SUMMER. I hate the hot weather, I hate the humidity, I hate the lack of energy and clothing choices it gives me, I hate not having anything to do, I hate being alone all the time, I hate that my options for not being alone involve me tagging along awkwardly with others, I hate leaving my family as will inevitably happen at the end of it, I hate it.

Summer sucks. That seasonal depression stuff is the exact opposite for me. Most people get it in the fall and winter when there's less sun, well you can take your sun and shove it where it don't shine because I like it that way. I don't appreciate people calling me a psycho for recoiling from it and from warm weather because personally, I think you're just kidding yourselves.

The only thing I like about summer is that I can swim in the sea. The sea is frigid cold.

I'd rather the salt burn my eyes than sit under the sun and burn myself any day. Tans are for people who want to look like beef jerky. I don't. I hate the atmosphere of summer by the sea. I hate the people, I hate the loud music, I hate the noise, I hate the cloying smell of perfume that fills the air. I'm talking in particular about Bodrum. Bodrum is in southern Turkey and my family has a summer home there. There are enough bedrooms to fit all 14 of us (on my mom's side) and guests and the cook and it's right by the sea; the garden leads down to it. It is glorious and I've been bitching at everyone to make plans to go there this summer too. But in the last few years hotels and clubs have popped up all around it. And thus we have the aforementioned list of hate. Let me give you an example of the sort of people that we have the joy of being surrounded by, every time we go. One particular plane ride down there, I was sitting next to this woman. She had ample cleavage she showed off with an unflattering top, a stupid large hat, dark sunglasses that she did not take off once, and every few minutes she would spritz herself with her cheap perfume. God, I hate cheap perfumes. They smell like plastic and sugar. She killed my sense of smell and I can only hope she didn't do permanent damage to my cat's. All she was missing was a cellphone glued to her head. Which she turned on as soon as we landed and started whining into it almost immediately. Behind me and in front were a group of men. They wore their trendy colorful shirts with the collars unbuttoned and had even more choking amounts of cologne on than the woman, and every so often would demand more drinks from the stewardess. They got so loud and so drunk on that 40 minute flight that it went past amusing to just kiro. Our version of a guido.

I don't hate these people. It's not their fault they're morons. I just hate their actions and that they believe this is what constitutes success and "coolness."

They're always present but in the summer, it seems like they get a license to multiply and assume the full-annoyance position.

I can't wait for my birthday in September. My birthday sucks beyond measure every year but it seems to act as the big finish. One final hurrah and from then on good can flourish again.

I Hate Everything About You

This post's crabbiness is brought to you by the '90s wonder that is Ugly Kid Joe's, "Everything About You." Did you know their name spoofs another one of my bands'; Pretty Boy Floyd. Fun facts are fun.

The subject of my annoyance today is etiquette. No, I am not a 90 year old woman sipping tea with my pinky finger sticking out. Nor am I a finishing school graduate because, let's face it, if I were I wouldn't swear so much in these posts. But I have a bone to pick with certain people and I assure you, manners are not subject to just the elderly or the fussy.

Texting, Blackberry messaging, emailing, cell phones, actual phones, and even regular mail, are all there for us to keep in contact. Not to mention, we have instant messaging, skyping, and God forbid we use this last, desperate measure; actually talking to people. These sources are all there so that we can remain part of what we see as the "civilized" world all the time. You can access the Internet on planes now because of those certain individuals whose precious lives are too important for them to turn off their cellphones for even the duration of a flight. I have no problem with any of these (except, come on jackass businessman, just switch. It. Off. It's not hard and I have enough paranoia about flying and dying without your added wireless interference. Believe me, most of you are probably so uptight, no one really misses your absence anyway so just hit that button and give everyone, including the phone and me, some peace) especially since I'm so averse to talking to people, I'd rather contact them via writing via any of the above sources rather than actually call them.

But when you have access to these controls, you have a responsibility to the people you surround yourself with. What, I ask you, what is the point of having ten thousand ways of staying in contact when you can't even bother to do the oh-so-hard task of pressing a button to either pick up or reply? What's the point of getting the latest in obnoxiously multi-functioning hardware when you don't USE it for the basic, simple function it was made in the first place; contact. Okay, it's understandable if not everyone picks up on the first ring. I'm by no means a cell phone saint as I more often forget to take it with me when I go out than not. And yes, some people are considerate and put their phones on vibrate so maybe while trying to appease the general world around them, they don't hear it. Sometimes it's even better to have a small, unnoticeable vibration rather than a squawking, high-pitched version of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme blasting until you finally find the phone, which will undoubtedly be in the last place you look; the pocket in bags which are designated for cell phones. However, guess what? Modern technology is so on top of their game, they have a solution for this! It's called the missed call. So even if you do, despite your best efforts, miss a certain someone getting in contact with you, there's evidence that it happened. This is where your responsibility comes into play. Return the call, you inconsiderate jerk.

My grandmother calls me fairly often when I'm in the States. Sometimes, since she has weird sleeping hours too, it comes pretty late and if I miss it, I don't call her back. Why? Because we have seven time zones between us and oh, I don't know maybe it would be better if she were sleeping at 5 am rather than fumbling around for a phone. But I call back the next day. I love my family and I am diligent about staying in touch with them. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Okay, some of us might be functioning on a different plane and not give a damn what the other is doing. That's their business but even then, if I call them or text them they owe it to me to write back. Yes they do, they owe me that much. It's the same with friends and work too. If someone goes out of their way to do something for you, because face it, contact is as much for you as for those who're trying to contact you, you owe it to them to speak up or provide something in return. This is how society works. These are just the simple, unspoken rules you should know and abide by and if you don't want to, well there's the door. Don't expect anyone to do anything for you when you cut yourself off, seal yourself from the world and from the simple human need to know how their loved ones are doing.

I think emails are the bane of my "work" life. So to speak, as I don't have much of one. Everything that I've had to do outside work for, either paying or non-paying, has been through email. I've had one in-person interview and about 4 over the phone and the rest have all been through emails. Which brings me to my current pickle. Emails are possibly the quickest, easiest, and laziest way you can contact someone. They're supposed to be a relief but noooo. Apparently, even that is too hard for the modern, working person. I've had to figure out, on my own, at least three times when people no longer needed my services when they just stopped emailing me. Hey, you know how you could've avoided all those politely professonal, and one actually concerned for the well-being of the party involved, emails? By WRITING BACK. Say no, say go away, hell, say fuck off we don't want you or like you. Too long? Too much effort? Write BYE as the subject heading and be done with it! There is no need to drag something out and play games with someone's mind and hopes (especially mine because I am a delicate flower) when you can spend literally 15 seconds or less to cut them off.

I admit, I have days when I don't want to talk to someone. Or see them. So I avoid things. But I don't let that go for more than a day or two as it is rude. I was raised better than that and I have trouble believing people older than I am weren't. Okay, so if you're my age or younger shame on your parents true, but shame on you too. It's common courtesy to return a call, to inquire how someone is, to check in with family, to answer a question. Couldn't you have figured that out without being taught manners and courtesy? I'm not asking you to get your elbows off the table or to open the car door for a lady, it's replying and using the many available methods you have at your disposal to simply hold up your end of the contact contract. You're human, you should know this. I'm not asking for a lot here, am I? It's not like I'm getting mad at my cat for not sending me a thank you card every time I get her food, I'm just requesting a place that's looking for work to reply back when I'm actually willing to provide them with what they requested. Do you even consider how unprofessional that makes you look?

Putting aside the business and professional side of this, what about the people you know? Friends and family? "I'm bad at staying in contact," just doesn't fly anymore. It's one thing if you don't want to do it. Fine. I accept that. I don't either. We don't have to, "stay in touch," and just see each other when we do. That's absolutely fine, some people or relationships, just function that way. My best friends and I see each other twice a year, at most and we talk to each other every few weeks or so. But hey, guess what? When I text them something that requires a response or vice versa, we follow through! Why? No, not because we're friends, it's SIMPLE HUMAN DECENCY TO BE POLITE AND TO RETURN A CALL OR A MESSAGE WHEN SOMEONE IS ACTIVELY SEEKING YOU OUT AND CAN'T REACH YOU. Your super-cool, does-everything phone means jackshit to me if you can't use it properly, in terms of replying to something or confirming something or just reassuring me that you're still alive.

I'm going to sit here and fume until you write back, certain place I've applied to. And if you don't within a week I will be going CAPS LOCK ON YOUR ASS. No, I won't but it's nice to dream.

Insert maudlin song lyrics or title.

I can't sleep. I can't sleep, I can't sleep, I can't sleep. Why do I sleep late every day? Because without the aid of sleeping pills, I CAN'T SLEEP.

I try to sleep. I go to bed at 12, at 2, early times for me. But then I lay there for the next few hours, listening to the cat snore, listening to the rain, listening to the call to prayer, listening to every damn thing that confirms to me that I'm not sleeping.

Not that sleeping helps. Oh no, hahaha. That would be too kind for my brain. No, no, when I sleep it's the most restless, active-dreaming sleep that when I wake up, I realize I've been asleep. There's virtually no difference! Not even the pills help with that. By pills I mean the PM versions of common headache medicines. Lest you think I've gone the rock star way. Not quite nightmares but by no means pleasant dreams, just weird stories that disturb and sadden and confuse me, every night. And thus, I never wake up rested no matter how late I get up. But Leyla, you say, when the body sleeps more, it feels more tired. Of course you don't feel rested, you're sleeping too much. I beg to differ kind, disembodied voice. When one falls asleep around 5 and gets up at 1, that's not too much sleep. That's the normal amount of sleep the body requires. So technically I should wake up refreshed! Ready! Happy to take on the day! But that would be too kind, no, I should just keep on waking up feeling like something really heavy ran me over. Not a car, not a tractor. A monster truck maybe. One that has a personal vendetta against me.

I have too many thoughts in my head. They swirl around and repeat themselves and spawn many other tiny thoughts like those asexual organisms you learn about in biology. They don't need a mate to reproduce, they just build up and up and then through mitosis or osmosis or some other reaction, they make another. But my thoughts don't let that stay put, oh oh! No, they'll then analyze the meanings of osmosis and mitosis and add meiosis and all the useless information I have stored in there will unravel and join the thoughts until my head is so full, my brain begs to be let out.

You could make a science fiction movie out of my mind. The Girl Who Thought Too Much. You know what the finale would be? Complete, psychotic breakdown. The brain devours the girl, then everything else until the world is a black hole created by a monstrous brain. Hmm. Is this what happens when I stop the Paxil? I thought I was doing fine but then, I could sleep with Paxil. The thoughts wouldn't mutliply like bunnies in heat with Paxil. I didn't grit my teeth, to fight the weird about-to-cry-ness that always seems present, with Paxil. The weird, about-to-cry-ness that comes with any excess of emotion, was never present with Paxil. Supposedly, the reason people cry is because our bodies over-react and produce chemicals and hormones. Well, bottle me up, because apparently I have enough chemicals and hormones to appease both junkies and the sexually confused alike (respectively, the junkies get the chemicals the boy-girls or girl-boys get the hormones.)

Once upon a time, people were scared of anti-depressants including a girl named me. What if they made you a zombie? And not the cool kind of zombie that ate brains (oh-ho, want mine? It's chock full of yummy thoughts), but the kind that had no personality and was numb to the world. But then the girl named me was prescribed Paxil. And it was all right. It made the choking feeling and the heart racing stop and the personality stay the same. And then she went off it and thought, hey! No side effects! She was smart and didn't do it like the last time where she forgot the pills when she went to visit her boyfriend's family and ended up vomiting the entire night from withdrawal and the worst fucking headache a head has had to suffer. In the world. Ever. Your boyfriend's mom's chocolate cranberry brownies ain't so tasty passing through your throat the opposite way. This time, she slowed it down and cut it off. And she was fine and wondering what good were they really? Was it all psychosomatic? Maybe it did really help because right now she's feeling more of the psycho without the somatic. Or is it because she knows, and the brain knows, and the thoughts know, she's off it?

My brain hurts. The thoughts hurt it. And my jaw hurts. The teeth gritting hurts it. Especially since teeth really have no control over eyes and tear ducts as much as we'd like them to.

Sometimes little girls have to ask, Universe? I hope you have a fucking plan because days like today happen and I just can't understand why. Tossing and turning in bed doesn't help especially when your fickle cat growls every time you come near her rear (which sets off even more thoughts, seriously the slightest thing; did the cat suffer some horrible rear-end situation in a past life? In this life? Do cats get reincarnated? What was the cat's life before she found the little girl? Was she happy? Is she happy now? What if something happens to the cat? Will the little girl be okay (NO))? And so on. Oh and don't even get the girl started on life without the cat because right now, the unsuspecting creature is pretty much all that's holding her together.

Little girls aren't as little as they would like to me. They get tired of bullshit and thoughts and mouth aches and lack of sleeping. It's not fair to count on Paxil and pills, because it's just asking too much of them. It's too much pressure for the poor little pills. And the brain. And the jaw. And the eyes. And the head. And the heart.

So Universe, help out a not-so-little little girl. OR AT LEAST LET ME GET SOME SLEEP.

I'm So Stupid

Why is it that whenever I got really, really excited about something and envision futures of delight and happiness, it blows up in my face?

Take my first internship at CNN Türk. I was supposed to be interning at the arts & entertainment department of the channel, a program called Afiş, at CNN! Just, Turkish. So I showed up the first day and they parked me in front of a computer and I...spent about 8 hours on Facebook. And the next day too. Finally, I started bringing in books to read and I went through about 5 books in 3 days. Oh, they didn't leave me completely hanging though, oh no. I got to translate a one paragraph article from English to Turkish about the Black Eyed Peas performing for Nelson Mandela on his birthday. Except I had to email it to my mom to correctit before I turned it in because fuck if I know Turkish grammar, I never went to Turkish school, I don't read enough Turkish books, I never learned any of that! They also took me on two shoots, each one to film the intro of a segment within the show. I got to... stand to the side and watch a heavily made-up woman talk and then get barked at by the bad-tempered camera guy. I even shamelessly played the grandpa card. I NEVER play the family name card but finally I was so frustrated I started bringing in my grandfather's autobiography (which at the time I was translating into English, another project of mine that sputtered out and probably is no longer needed, not that I was doing a good job anyway) to work on and people noticed who it was and asked who I was. But then went back to ignoring me. Finally, I just quit. What was supposed to be a month-long internship ended up being a week and a half of the most mental frustration I've ever had to deal with. I was told to come in on a Saturday too once because they were covering a country-wide exam but did they tell me where? NOOOO. So I showed up at a completely empty office at 9 in the morning on a Saturday. Yes, maybe I should've checked and made sure where I was supposed to be, they said they were short of people, and this made me feel slightly guilty. But why should it? I know I was a lowly intern but for fuck's sake treat me at least like a human. I didn't even get to photocopy papers of fetch coffee.

Then let's see, there were all my music writing jobs. Oh I talk the big talk on how I got to interview some of my favorite bands and review records and get published. Big fucking whoop. I got to interview two bands that I actually liked, one which was with Hardcore Superstar who are pretty much my favorite band, but even that has a sour edge to it because their representation was so scatter-brained they stood me up twice on phone interviews (one on my BIRTHDAY) and I had to end up emailing them my questions. I got no money, barely any credit, and the very first online magazine I worked (who, I might mention, looooved me during my interview with them esp) for edited my stuff so much that I had to re-write everything twice or more just so I could at least have my words published. This from the people who emailed me to ask me to interview because my cover letter stood out from all the others because of my "voice." Not to mention, three, yes THREE, separate websites stopped responding to me and posting my articles and thereby letting me know my services were no longer needed in the most passive, unprofessional way ever. One website which at first was so into me they gave me my own column. What the fuck, are we in high school? Are you breaking up with me and ignoring my emails and texts? Just tell me straight out, I'm a big girl I can understand if you no longer want or need me to write for you. Haha oh and there was that other one where the guy I reported to hit on me via an email.

Which brings me to the latest thing. This internship turned part-time job. When I was interning for this literary agency, they sent me 22 books and scripts in 3 months to do in record time. I was so excited that I got the internship without having to stay in LA that I was happy to do it and I sincerely was. I'm good at what I do and I do it well. I don't sacrifice quality for speed, I can handle both. They realized this and actually kept me on after the internship ended as a paid reader. But now, I have received three books in two months. And they have not answered any recent emails.

Like I said, I get so, so nerdily dorkily excited when I get these opportunities. Hooray, someone likes what I can do and wants it! But then it just blows up in my face and I end up sitting up, waaaay past regular bedtimes ranting and raving and fuming and bitching and writing entries that are better suited for a middle school Livejournal than a grown-up blog. I understand having to pay dues and not getting things handed to me but I try! I would like something back for all the effort. It's frustrating, it makes my brain and heart hurt, and it makes me paranoid about my abilities and the fact that maybe I'm disappointing everyone around me. Screw it, I'm going to look at things that make me happy. And hug my cat. She has her butt pressed up next to me and is snoring so sweetly.

Credit goes to the beautiful, creative blogs I follow, all listed on the right.

What It Feels Like For A Girl...

...with OCD. I don't know if I believe in all these acronym conditions like OCD or ADD, I tend to think there's a part of every person that the individual can't control. Whether it exhibits itself as closing the door seventeen times a day or being unable to sit still for five minutes, it's out of your hands and it's just a part of you. It's a quirk to show that no one is perfect and ever really totally in control. I mean, I do think one can start to control or even completely get rid of these involuntarily placed systems within the body but it takes training, time, and sometimes even medication. And sometimes you're just stuck with them, they are a part of what makes you inherently you. I myself like things in even numbers, sorted out and paired. I also have a habit of obsessing about one thing until someone shakes the thought out of my head, either by comforting me or by yelling at me to get a grip. To better explain it, say I get a thought. Like my mom isn't completely happy with the tattoo she got a few years ago. In my head this will grow and grow and become a problem and make me think, but she has it forever I need to make sure this thing she's wanted for so long is perfect, I need to make her happy. And then the burden of it will start dragging me down and I'll go with how? How can I do this? Maybe she's okay with it. Maybe it doesn't matter. I'll keep asking her if she's sure or try to get a plan made until she snaps at me or I just go crazy and chew my nails until they bleed. Hypothetically speaking of course.

I'm not a doctor, heh, but I'd say that's a little OCD. To go along with that I also have this thing. It's kind of still a hush hush subject in some places but I've grown to accept it a little bit, and now I don't care who knows. I have depression. No, I don't sit in my room cutting myself and writing poetry about dead flowers and hating myself because Sartre stated that life has no meaning and that's the truth. For the record, yes it does. Every life is precious and Sartre can kiss my ass. Hell is other people Jean-Paul? No, hell is studying you for two years. In French. And reading and acting out Huis Clos. In French. And spending hours figuring out how to write about you in the correct tense. IN FRENCH. Okay, sometimes it was just spending hours inputting English sentences that Babel Fish would translate into French which we'd then type up without bothering to fix it, but still. Where was I? Oh yes, life is wonderful. It's a gift. If it didn't mean anything then we simply wouldn't exist. Which is one of the many reasons why death scares the living shit (bahaha living get it?) out of me, but that's another topic. Yes, I have depression. It apparently runs in the family. I got smacked with it for the first time, for real, the summer between my junior and senior years of college. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I was listless and bawling and it felt like this huge spiky rope was coiled in my stomach and was slowly killing me. I couldn't breathe because of it (it stretched all the way to my throat) and it always felt like my heart was beating too fast. I actually tried taking my pulse and counting the beats because I thought my heart had turned into a hummingbird and was about to flutter out of my chest.

I didn't know why I felt like this and I was so scared that it wouldn't ever go away and that I was not normal. My dad was also going through something similar (needless to say that summer was not a good one for our family, especially my mom and sister who had to deal with us and all our other family members and their crazies). No matter how much my mom said it would pass, I couldn't believe her. It scared me to go to the doctor because it made it seem so serious and it scared me even more to take pills, Paxil and Xanax, because I thought they would make me addicted and I'd have this problem for the rest of my life. Well, I've come to realize I will. But I won't always feel like that. The pills did make me feel better, they balanced my brain chemistry so that I could breathe and eat again. The Xanax was awful and made me fall asleep immediately and wake up half an hour later gasping and choking in the midst of a panic attack. But the Paxil helped and so did the Diazem when I had the really bad attacks. I remember the night I felt slowly like me again. I picked up, "Lamb," by Christopher Moore and managed to sit and calmly read and eat miniature Snickers bars, the first thing I ate after ten days. God bless chocolate. The whole thing seemed to last forever but it was only a couple weeks.

I stopped the Paxil a few months later but until now I had two more bouts of the scary Leyla mood as I think of it. My leg tattoos set one episode off. Ugh. Luckily, I'm over it and I have 3 pretty peacock feathers on my right leg which I jokingly say represent my mom, my sister, and my dad. I currently take Paxil and I do have a doctor (who I have not seen since September though, whoops) but other than the occasional and normal "sad" day I'm fine, I'm me. That's what made me feel such relief when the "episode" passed. The drugs didn't make me a zombie and I didn't turn into a facsimilie of a happy version of me. I'm Leyla. The reason I still take them is because the doctor recommended it because I'm in a, "transition stage of my life." And since the episodes still happen, I'd rather keep them at bay with some help rather than succumbing to them. I will stop taking Paxil eventually though and maybe I'll have to start again in the future. I sure as hell hope I don't but I know what to expect and what I can do to combat it now. I also know that there are others like me, a close friend for one, and that talking with them and being there for them is just as helpful when you feel like you're the only crazy in the world.

Ah transitions. Better known as change. Even better known as my greatest enemy. I don't like change. I like things the way they are and to stay the way they are. My biggest worries during the episodes were along the lines of, oh God what is going to happen to me after college, where will I work, where will my friends be, why are they not staying with me, why do I have to be so far away from my family, why is it ending so soon, why can't I just be a kid again? I fervently wished to be a kid and happy and safe in my home with my healthy grandparents and parents. My grandparents have been going through a lot of health scares in recent years and all that just makes me think about our mortality and then I get panic attacks because honestly, I'm lost without my family. I truly am. We are all so tight-knit and loving, I don't think I could've turned out the way I did if not for them. I still get those worries but I'm learning to calm them.

Change makes me anxious-making and I don't like it. It always makes the fluttery stomach spiky rope thing come back and consumes me with worry. You can always tell when I'm worried because my nails become non-existent.

Lately though, I've become better at it. About looking change in the eye and taking a deep breath. But sometimes it still beats me. It makes me cry and even when I'm not crying it still makes me leak out of my face orifices uncontrollably. It makes my stomach flip flop in a bad way and convinces me I'm about to throw up. I don't know what sets it off. Sometimes it's just the fear of the unknown and I hate not knowing. I had to leave L.A. because this happened and it's just an all-consuming, get me out of here this instant, snakes choking my insides, call my mom constantly for reassurance, sob for no reason feeling that takes over me and destroys all rationality. I get smaller episodes too that aren't that big a deal but make me ashamed. Like I left LA previously on a visit to my friend because I had this feeling. And now I get it when I'm away from home, like spending the night somewhere. I make excuses, valid ones actually, and try to get myself out of the situation and then I feel horrible because I'm usually changing plans with somebody to do it. I feel so guilty and then try to convince myself it's ok and I'll make it up and it's just lousy but then I'm home and my stomach calms down. I know my cousins reads this and I was supposed to spend the night at her house which I'm totally fine with, I love hanging out with her. But I was worrying about a book I have to cover for my internship (by tomorrow. And they still haven't sent the book), and this meeting I have tomorrow and I thought it might make me bad company for the night. But what I don't understand is, they are all easy fixes. The internship said if I couldn't do it by tomorrow it would be fine but I want them to think I'm Superwoman and then be open for future job possibiliies but I know I'm not Superwoman so why force it? And the meeting? It's closer to my cousin's house than my own and I could just go from there in the morning but I just get this need to be home and handle it from there and nothing can quiet my insides until I'm "safe."

This is why I have unhealthy relationships with my phone and computer when I'm not home, they are the lifelines connecting me to where I feel safe. But safe? I'm safe where I am that's not home too. I need to get rid of this second-guessing and self-sabotage because it's slowly eating at me. My calm-down music is now the live versions of Madonna's, "Like a Prayer," followed by, "Jump," followed by the album version of, "Ray of Light." They helped during the ride home but I don't know if that was because I knew was going home or because they are good soothing songs. So I hope people, especially my dear cousin who I love with all my heart, understand when I do these spastic things that make sense in my brain and that I force to make sense in real life. Then punish myself for wanting it that way.

I don't quite know how to explain how change, depression, weird panic get-me-out-of-here moments, are all related but to me they are. I want them to go away. I want the Like A Muse project to help me get going with my life both in the physical sense (getting in shape, writing) and the emotional/metaphysicial (my mind-set and my habits that I don't like). But if they are a part of me, a permanent part that contributes to making me who I am, I want to be okay with them because I feel guilty and I hate that feeling. I spend way too much time feeling guilty and trying to rationalize it and it's really tiring. It hurts my brain. So I'm going to stop. And go work out and read the stupid book if my internship boss lady ever sends it.

Oh, on the way home the dolmus (mini-bus) driver got in a fight with one of the passengers We were all on his side though and finally had to yell at the idiot man to get out of the car. Ah Istanbul.

Like A Dream...

"Why was I your last choice?"

Stupid question. Yes I knew it was a stupid question but I asked it anyway. Why was I the last person my boyfriend landed on, on his quest to find a girlfriend? I liked him from the start why didn't he return the favor? You'd think I was past all this bullshit. Four years and some change into a relationship should mean I am happy, self-satisfied, and even a little smug, deservedly so, as what other 24-year-old girl has the boyfriend I have? And truly, he's wonderful. He was my best friend before my boyfriend and that's the dream right? Well I got it. And still these idiotic niggling thoughts pop into my head and show me once again what a pathetic excuse I am for a human being.

Why is always at night? Why is it when the world is sleeping that us seemingly content and happy girls toss and turn and analyze and come to the conclusion that we're crazy and stupid and hate our lives when in fact, we should be thanking God or whatever higher being we believe in that we have it so lucky. For the record, I do believe there is a higher being; someone who knows what they're doing. Because if I didn't believe everything happened for a reason, well I'd just have kill myself. Except I wouldn't because I don't believe in suicide. Anyway, I am one of those content, happy, and overall lucky girls that's convinced she's barking mad as she spends night after night, awake and sad. I come from a pretty well-off family that's half Turkish and half Iranian. The bonds that tie us puts the fairy tale that was, "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," to shame. We breathe, eat, sleep, and live each other. Which sounds gross but really, we're the most tight-knit, protective, loving group of people that could ever share common blood. On top of this, I'm highly educated, fairly intelligent, have awesome hair when it cooperates, and an excellent taste in music. Yes I am a self-proclaimed heavy metal chick but guess what. I am. So fuck you. Iron Maiden forever. And then there's my boyfriend who any sensible female would take an appreciative glance at and who I find very attractive and who sincerely calls me a hot ass babe. Screw your feminism, in my head where I reign as the smart but weird friend to the hot girl (RIP John Hughes but nothing Molly Ringwald as ever been in compares to my life), I crave to be judged by my looks sometimes.

And yet here I am, pulling an Elizabeth Gilbert as I sit up in my apartment, my amazing, gorgeous apartment located in the heart of Boston on Newbury Street I might add, lamenting how deeply, deeply unhappy I am. Maybe it's something all of us privileged white girls go through but depression is a bitch. Especially when there is no goddamn reason for it. I had my oh-so-delightful first nervous breakdown (yes first, as in, more to come) a few years ago during the summer between junior and senior year of college. Then again after I graduated and started my MFA. Then again the next summer. And now. What the fuck, man. Why me? I went to art school where I had a blast for four years as well as getting degree in Media Arts, I got a masters in screenwriting, and now I have every opportunity to make something of myself in the creative world. Except this is the very reason why I bawled my eyes out, quit an internship program that may have lead me to what I've wanted in Los Angeles, and came crawling back home.

Why am I the last choice? Why was I never asked out in high school? How come all my friends are hotter than me? How come I'm such a failure in my eyes? Can I write? Why do people tell me I can when I don't even know anymore? Why am I so far away from my cat, the only thing that has brought me joy in the past year?

I need to get the fuck over myself. So here we are. I want to be a writer. I want to be heard. Hell, maybe I even want to be a screenwriter but I sure as hell ain't gonna succeed if I don't write so here we go. Time to analyze and take a few steps forward.

Madonna is amazing. I've loved her since I was a kid. Yes I am pulling a non-sequitur much? but it will make sense. See, the stories that I love to read are the stories about people, people like me, women, who have come to a block in their lives, in their, to all outward appearances, perfect lives. They crave more. Eat, Pray, Love and Julie & Julia were the two books from last year that sucked me in and made me cry out (inwardly of course, as I'm a robot who can't express emotion unless I'm having one of the aforementioned breakdowns and leaking tears from every face hole), "This is ME! This is what I feel." This past week in L.A. it all came to a head. I didn't want to be there even though I had worked so hard to get there. I got my driver's license, I applied to my school's post-grad program that helps place students in internships within the industry, I left my kitty with my parents in Turkey, and hauled my ass to California. But that awful feeling happened. Depression affects everyone differently but the way my dark passenger, to quote Dexter, rears her bitch head is by forming a giant lump in my chest and throat, killing my appetite, and thoroughly convincing me that I'm dying and I'm going crazy and I'm the only freak that feels this and the world is ending all at the same time. After teary phone calls with my parents and long, long, often heart-breaking conversations with my boyfriend that I won't rehash here, I up and left L.A. and came back to Boston. After three days. And it all boils down to being afraid and not knowing how I was going to get by alone in a strange city that required driving. Yeah, I'm that hysterical woman from 1930s mystery novels that needs a proper slap to come to her senses.

Enough is enough. Time to fix me. I wasn't happy in grad school because I thought I was wasting my life and now it's 8 months past graduation and I still haven't done anything and I'm 24 and time is running out and I've gained weight, and I'm ugly, and I'm just a worthless person. Well, no happy person I've ever met thinks so harshly of themselves so here is my first step. Learn to love myself. Oh barf, I can't believe I just wrote that. Before I go hug a tree and make a dress out of hemp let me get to my point. I was lying in bed tonight, not sleeping, and got to thinking about Madonna. I've listened to her my entire life and I spent today walking around playing my favorite song, "Like A Prayer," over and over. There's comfort in familiarity and Madonna is my childhood and the bond that connects me to every important female in my life from my mom to my cousins to my sister to my best friends. Lo and behold, "in the midnight hour, [I felt her] power." There was a book I once read by India Knight called My Life On A Plate. In it is a description of the main character, "playing Madonna." Basically, whenever a situation arose that she couldn't handle, that she balked at, that made her uncertain and fearful, she pretended she was Madonna and rode it out with confidence and style. I get that. You see, to us Madonna is the ultimate queen. She's been around forever, she always looks fantastic, she's her own muse, she's got talent and creativity and she has that attitude that you just can't mess with.

I want to do that too.

I mean, I don't literally wanna become Madonna, I have no patience for children and certainly won't adopt any, neither will I dye my hair blonde because being a brunette is the one thing I know I take a glowing pride in. Though my hair right now is very blonde streaked. I was having a Kat Von D, trashy dark with blonde highlights moment. Hey, I pull it off. But I digress. No, I don't want to be Madonna but I would like to play her. I want to face problems head on instead of cowering and taking the easy way out. I want to be successful. I want to look fabulous and know it. So here is my Julie & Julia-esque journey of self-discovery; I will make a concise list of every momentous look and fad Madonna went through and pay homage to it in my daily life. Maybe looking ridiculous will help me get over my self-esteem issues. Maybe it will make them worse. But it's something. I can tackle things that I normally don't like writing daily or on a semi-regular basis, do stuff I never would do otherwise, say off the top of my head, riding horses with self-assured aplomb. Watch out Lulu (my dad's horse), English-version Madonna Leyla is coming. Of course I will document it all here which is the next step in getting me writing. I want to do 100 days of Madonna. Maybe they won't be back to back, but I will have 100 days where I tackle the day as Madonna would do and never look back. I've always wanted to be a muse to someone but that is just a girlish fantasy that will never come true. So Madonna will be my guide to make me the muse I want to be for myself. Sounds egotistical right? Good, I think I need that now.

I warn you though, I tend to ramble when I get going. So I will write a lot. Hopefully. I hope so. Writers should write. I can't say now if it'll be good but by the end I hope I can sincerely say it and mean it, have faith in myself. Now I go crawl back into bed with my gorgeous, wonderful boyfriend who will read this in the morning and either pat me on the back or agree, finally, that I am crazy.

"Like a dream, no end and no beginning."